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Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  MIcroreproductions  /  institut  canadien  de  microreproductlons  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes  /  Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best  original 
copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this  copy  which 
may  be  bibliographically  unique,  which  may  alter  any  of 
the  images  in  the  reproduction,  or  which  may 
significantly  change  the  usual  method  of  filming  are 
checked  below. 


D 


Coloured  covers  / 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I      I    Covers  damaged  / 


Couverture  endommagee 


□    Covers  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
Couverture  restauree  et/ou  pelliculee 

Cover  title  missing  /  Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

I I    Coloured  maps  /  Cartes  geographiques  en  couleur 

□    Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)  / 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

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interieure. 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restorations  may  appear 
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omitted  from  filming  /  Use  peut  que  certaines  pages 
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apparaissent  dans  le  texte,  mais,  lorsque  cela  etait 
possible,  ces  pages  n'ont  pas  ete  filmees. 

Additional  comments  / 
Commentaires  supplementaires: 


D 
D 
D 


D 


D 


L'Institut  a  microfilme  le  meilleur  exemplaire  qu'il  lui  a 
ete  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details  de  cet  exem- 
plaire qui  sont  peut-etre  uniques  du  point  de  vue  bibli- 
ographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier  une  image  reproduite, 
ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une  modification  dans  la  metho- 
de  normale  de  filmage  sont  indiques  ci-dessous. 

j         Coloured  pages  /  Pages  de  couleur 

I I    Pages  damaged  /  Pages  endommagees 


D 


Pages  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
Pages  restaurees  et/ou  pelliculees 


Q    Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed  / 
Pages  decolorees,  tachetees  ou  piquees 

Pages  detached  /  Pages  detachees 

Shovvthrough  /  Transparence 


I      I    Quality  of  print  varies  / 


D 
D 


D 


Qualite  inegale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  material  / 
Comprend  du  materiel  supplementaire 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata  slips, 
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possible  image  /  Les  pages  totalement  ou 
partieilement  obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une 
pelure,  etc.,  ont  ete  filmees  a  nouveau  de  fa?on  a 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 

Opposing  pages  with  varying  colouration  or 
discolourations  are  filmed  twice  to  ensure  the  best 
possible  image  /  Les  pages  s'opposant  ayant  des 
colorations  variables  ou  des  decolorations  sont 
filmees  deux  fois  afin  d'obtenir  la  meilleure  image 
possible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below  / 

Ce  document  est  lilme  au  taux  de  reduction  indique  ci-dessous. 


10x 


14x 


18x 


12x 


16x 


20x 


22x 


I 


26x 


30x 


24x 


3 


28x 


32x 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

National   Library  of  Canada 


L'exemplaire  filmd  fut  reproduit  grace  ^  la 
g^n^rositd  de: 

Bibliotheque  nationale  du  Canada 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impret- 
sion,  or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — ♦-  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  {meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 

Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  ix6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nertetd  de  I'exemplaire  filmi,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 

Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimie  sont  filmis  en  commencant 
par  la  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
derniire  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas,  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmis  en  commenpant  par  la 
premiire  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  epparaitra  sur  la 
detnlire  image  de  chac,ue  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbols  — •-  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc..  peuvent  etre 
filmis  i  des  taux  de  reduction  diff^rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  etre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clich6.  il  est  film6  ^  partir 
de  Tangle  supirieur  gauche,  de  gauche  ^  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nicessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mithode. 


1 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST    CHART 

(ANSI  anj  ISO  TEST  CHART  No    ") 


1.0 


M 


1.25 


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tSi. 


12.8 


1.4 


2.5 


IIIM     lllll  2.2 


III  3.6 

llllltf 


2.0 
1.8 

1.6 


I 


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it. 


rOl'ULAll   NOVELS. 

By  May  Agnes  Fleming. 


l.-GUY  EARLSCOURT'S  WIFE, 
a.— A  WONDERFUL  WOMAN, 
a.— A  TERRIiJLE  SECRET. 
4.-N0RrNE'S  REVENGE. 
5.— A  MAD  MARRIAGE. 
C— ONE  NIGHT'S  MYSTERY. 
7.— KATE  DANTON.     (Ncip.) 


Mrs.  FlomliiK's  stories  aro  frrowiiiR  moro  and  nioro  popu- 
lar I'viry  (lay.     Xlu'ir   di'liiualions    of    churuotor, 
lilt'liko    (•(inv(!rsiitii)iiH,    llivshun    uf    wit,    con- 
Bluntly   varying'  kcciks.   uiid   deeply  in- 
turi'Ki  11114  plots,  coiiibiiio  to  place 
thuir  iiullior    in    thi^   very 
first  rank  of  Jlodern 
Nuvclwta." 


All  published  uniform  with  this  volume.   Price  $1.75  each, 
and  Kent /ret!  by  mail  on  rrceiirt  of  price,  by 

«.  W.  €AKL,ii'roiV  &  CO.,  PubllMlicm, 
New  Vork, 


ONE 


NIGHTS  MYSTERY, 


gk  %ml 


BY 


MAY  AGNES    FLEMING, 

AUTHOR    OP 

"0U7  KAKi.scouu'r's  wiKi,;,"    *'a  wondkufui.  woman," 

"a  TKKUIllLK  SIXIUOT,"   "KOIMNK's  UKYKNO-K," 

"mad  mauuiauk,"  etc. 


N  E  Vt      ;  O  R  K  J 

G.    W    Carleton   &-    Co,,    Pudlis/iers. 

LONDON:     S.  LOW   &   CO. 
MDCCCI-XXVI. 


f 


COPVRIOHTEO,    1876,    BY 

O.  W.  CAKLK'ION  &  CO. 


John  F.  Trow  &  Son, 

Pkintkhs  and  StkuKOIYI'KRS, 

205-213  Hast  i2t/i  Street, 

NKW   YOKK. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

I. — Sydney , , ,  ''*'''* 

11.— Cyrilla .*.'.'    9 

iir-schooi-Giri  (-ssij;;'.'.;;;;:.;;;;;;;;-;;;;;; «« 

IV — "So  Young,  and  so  Untendcr''''.'.'.'.".l ^^ 

V.-'«  Part  now,  Part  well,  Part  wide* Apart'' ^' 

Vr.-Why  Miss  Dormer  Hated  Fred  Carew      f 

VII.  — "IJnikr  thcTamaracs"  5' 

VU[._"A1I  is  Lost  but  Honor '*'.'. V.".V.".V.V.V ^^' 

IX.—"  A  Tempest  in  a  Teapot "   ^^ 

X.— The  Last  Night .".".".'.*'.'.*." ^^ 

XI.—"  A  Laggard  in  Love  "   ....*.* ^,'^ 

v^!f  ■"".'.'  '^n'""" ''"'' '"  "'-^  ^""^"b"  i>as  Come*  '•:":;;:;: ,S 

XnL-"Allan-a-Da]eisnoHaronor  Lord"  

XIV.  —  "  Men  were  Deceivers  Kver  "  ' " 

XV. -"To  One  Thing  Constant  Never" '^° 

^U,l'~"  ^^''  """"■■'  ^^""''^''  "^  i>i>^''onor',  Stood '' '?, 

XVII.-"  He's  Sweetest  Friend,  or  Hardest  Foe  "  . ." .'. J^ 

XVIIL-"  The  Feast  is  Set" '^^ 

XIX. — Tlie  Guests  are  Met '^ 

XX.—"  Death  is  King-and  Vivat  Rex  " '!^ 

XXL-"  -Twas  on  the  Evening  of  a  Winter's  Day  ''." I J 

XXII.-"Oh.  Wl>istle.andI'llCometoYe  my  lid" ^ 

XX 1 1 1.-Fairy  CJold. . .  'o  ^  e,  my  Lad     203 

XXIV.— Vendetta ...'....'..'. ^^"^ 

XXV — "  Good-bye,  Sweetheart  ".  .'.'.*.'.* ^^^ 

XX VI.—"  Ohl  the  Lees  are  Bitter.  Bitter  " ^"''^ 

24s 

PART  SECOND. 

I. — Sydney 

n.—"'sint'ram".*.*  ]'.'.'  ] " ^52 

III.~  Taliv  and  Tea-anil'  a  Letter ""^^ 

270 


Vlll 

I 

CIIAPTFR 

IV. 

V, 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI.- 

XII.. 

XIII.. 

XIV.- 

XV.- 

XVI.- 

XVII.- 

XVIII.- 

XIX.- 

XX.- 

XXI.- 

XXII.- 

XXIII.- 

XXIV.- 


CONTENTS. 

.—A  Basket  if  Flowers  and  a  Dinner 

,— A  Long  Talk  and  a  Little  Walk.. . .  [ 

—  "  One  Yellow  New-Year  Ni-ht '' "^^^^ 

— "  Fair  as  a  Star  » ]".  _  /  * '_ ^^9 

-Twilight  in  Lucy's  Room '.*.'.'.".'.*.*.' " ". ^°^ 

--  My  Life  has  Found  what  Sonie  iiav'e' found  so  Swe'e't  *""  "  '  ^^^^ 

-"  I  shall  have  had  my  Day  " •  • .  j^o 

-"  Her  Heart's  Desire  ".  ^^-^ 

-Teddy ^^^ 

-At  the  Play  and  After.  ..*.'.'.'.'.'"'.*.'. '.'.'."..*. ^'^^ 

-A  Visit  and  a  Golden  Wedding....'.'.'.'.' "^^^ 

-"No  Sun  goes  Down  but  that  some' H^art' does  Break '"■ ' '  ^J? 
-A  l<ond  Kiss,  and  then  we  Sever  "  '  *      ' 

-"  As  One  Whom  His  Mother  ComfortVth '"' Iz^ 

-"  The  Light  in  the  Dust  Lies  Dead  " .*    ^ 

-••  It  is  Good  to  be  Loyal  and  True  " ^^^ 

■A  New- Year  Gift ^^S 

•"  Two  Hands  upon  the  Breast  and  Labor  Past"'' '^^^ 

-Dolly 414 

"He  who  Endures  Conquers"        '^^' 

"  Int  J  Marvellous  Ligli.".        "^^^ 

436 


ONE   NIGHT'S   MYSTERY 


CHAPTER  1. 

SYDNEY. 
"  A  girl  who  has  so  many  wilful  ways, 

vee  is » ,.,  ;rs  ■  ii,:s;:^.r  ^-'-"^  '■■"■■ 

back  the  iVosty  fall  sunshine        „  ?  "'"'  '"""'''«' 

of  clingy  i^ed  brick'or  glooL  n.;!":"^"'*"  'any-winclovved, 
^11  telling  to  ihe  eve  an  S  of  ^h'      n'  ^'^'l^^^^^^"'^^  l^-Tond 

-ell,  let  us  sl^y-tSwn  of  /"dt  sTT  "°"'"  ^'^  ^'^''^  •^^^^^^"-^^- 
the  u-ord.  J.Te  ]onJL„  i.!  '  '  ^'^  j?^^^i"V^^-  ^tagnant-that  is 
^voke  up.     Re li.W    >i^^?,.  '^  t''"  ^""^  ''  ''^''^  there,  and  never 

full  score  of  bells  clash  fon,?  l^  ','"  (--^nadian  heaven  ;  a 
'l^iv,and  thn-cec^c  tS^^h^^^^^^^^^  Sunday  and  tiuice  on  that 
^li-  old  CatlK-dral   d^Not^f'      '  ,f^"f.  '-''^^""'"^:  ''^'"  ^'^  "'^-• 

gotten  town  of  olcl?,"?^  '?    •'"""   ^''•^■^^"O',  world  fo,. 

I>i"es  and  leather    tun  Acs  to       1         '''  °'">'  ^^^"^'  '^'-^'^^'^  '^^>J 

voiced-Canadial^h    ; r;;^  ^l;^-'.  bnlhan.-ph.n.aged,    shnU: 
liot,  short-lived    Cxni^^lnn     "     ^^  I'ranches.     Jn  the  hercely 


10 


SYDNEY. 


In  the  summer.  BiU  the  summer,  brief  and  sweet  as  a 
l)]easaiit  dream,  is  at  an  end;  the  ides  of  October  arc  here. 
Shrill  October  winds  whistle  down  the  wide  empty  streets  ;  drifts 
of  scarlet  mai)le  and  orange  hemlock  leaves  swirl  in  your  face  ; 
a  black  frost  holds  the  earth  iron  bound  ;  your  footsteps  rin"- 
like  steel  over  the  unpaved  sidewalks  ;  the  keen  breadi  of  coming 
winU-'r  sets  your  blood  leaping,  your  eyes  si)arkling,  and  lights 
in  dusk  Canadian  cheeks  a  hue  rosier  than  all  \X\^rouge  vegetal 
on  carlh  can  give. 

"And  the  last  of  October  will  be  Halloween!  This  is  the 
twenty-ninth — only  two  days  more.  Girls,  do  stoj)  whooping 
like  a  tribe  of  Mic-niacs  gone  mad,  and  list,  oh!  list  to  me. 
Friday  next  is  Halloween." 

JJiit  the  sjieakcr's  voice  was  lost  in  the  shrieking  uproar  of 
five-and-thirty  schoolgirls  "on  the  war-path."  Afternoon 
school  was  over,  the  day  scholars  gone  home,  and  the 
boarders,  out  in  the  playground  for  the  last  half  hour's  recess 
before  evening  stuily,  were  rending  the  heavens  with  the  deafen- 
ing, distracting  din  that  five-and-thirty  of  those  rose-cheeked, 
gold  liaired,  corseted  angels  alone  know  how  to  raise. 

If  there  was  one  thing  besides  its  churches  for  which  Petit 
St.  Jacijues  was  famous,  it  was  the  establishment  of  the  Dem- 
oiselles Chateauroy  for  yt)ung  laches,  it  stood  in  the  cent.e  of 
the  Rue  St.  Dominiipic  ;  and  if  there  was  anything  to  choose  in 
the  matter  of  dulness  and  respectability  among  all  the  (hdl  and 
resi)ectuble  streets  of  the  little  town,  tlie  Rue  St.  I)omini(iue 
should  be  awarded  the  i)alm.  There  were  no  shops,  there 
were  wo  peO[)le ;  the  houses  looked  at  you  as  you  i)assed  with  a 
sad,  settletl,  melanciioly  n)ildevv  ui)on  them  \  the  doors  rarely 
opened,  the  blinds  and  curtains  were  never  drawn  ;  prim  little 
gardens,  with  prim  little  gravel-paths,  shut  in  these  sad  httle 
lunises  from  the  street ;  now  and  then  a  pale,  pensive  face 
nnght  gleam  at  you  from  some  u])per  window,  spectre-like,  and 
\aiiish.  'i'he  wheels  of  a  |)assing  wagon  echo  and  re-echo 
down  its  long  silence;  the  very  dogs  who  sneak  out  to  waggle 
theii-  tails  in  the  front  grass-plot  have  a  forlorn  and  secret-sor- 
row soil  of  air.  Take  it  for  all  in  all,  you  might  travel  from  the 
St.  ],awrence  to  the  Rio  Orande  and  not  fnul  another  so  abso- 
lutely low-spirited  and  drearily  respectable  a  street  as  the  Rue 
St.  Dominitjue.  Indeed,  as  Miss  Sydney  Owenson  often  and 
justly  remarked,  it  was  a  very  poor  compliment  to  St.  I}omini(|ue 
to  christen  it  after  him  at  all.  Miss  Sydney  Owenson  was  one 
of  the  Demoiselles  Chateauroy's  five-and  thirty  boarders;  and 


iiVDNEY.  II 

it  jnay  aswell  be  stated  here  as  elsewhere,  had  nude  the  Demoi- 
selles Chateauroy  n,ore  trouble,  broken  niore  laws,  been  cZ 
denied  to  solitary  conline.nent  oftener,  been  the  head  Z,\ 
fi^ont  ot  nK>re  frolicson.e  ofiendings,  and,  wkhanbe^'be"^ 
iovedbyboth  pu.Ml  .  d  teachers  diirin-  the  ins t  three  VinrI 
than  the  other  fom-.^    .thirty  put  together.         ^  ^  "^  ' 

"Miss    Owenson    is    in    disgrace    every   week    of  her    life" 
Mademoiselle  Jeanne  Chateat^oy  was  wont  to  observe   tm'.. 

^""rCuid /""'  ""'''-f'  "^"''  'f  strict  justic;;;^  ad!;;;  ^ 

stc.ul    would  be  in  punishment  and  disgrace  every  day  of  the 
cek;  bu,   mafotl  what  would  you  ?     It  is  only^igh  spi    ts 

tint  Ttnie  "T'  ''''"  '"•-    ^".'^'^''^^  '''^  ^^^ool  I  a'ferS 
tiiat  IS,  true  ;  there  is  no  mischief  of  which  she  is  not  riniileader 

voice  ot  ...  angel ;  it  is  impossible  to  be  as  severe  with  her  as  she 
deserves,  and  then,  Mon   Dieu,  it  is  the  best  heart  thafevtr 

siti'nled^^'^tlT  '^"  '^''"'^r"''  °f  the  sisters  Chateauroy  was 
situated,  as  has  been  said,  in  the  centre  of  the  Rue  St.  Domini(me 

ground  m    he  rear.     A  wooden  wall  eight  feet  Ingh  shut  in  tl4 
saucd  inclosure  and  its  angelic   "jeunes  filles"   from  the     a 
cnlcg  ous  eye  of  man.     In  the  face  of  the  fierce  summer  sim,  hi 

Hw  ^r    \f  ^'^'r'-''''''  ^'"^"^  Windows  were  kept  jealously 

closed  and  barred      No  prying,  curious  daughter  o    Eve  migh^ 

tl IX,  S^?)  ^""''■""^  "'""^  ^'"'^'.^^^  '-^"^l  festive  dissipations^of 
he  kue  ht.  Dominuiue-no  darmg  masculine  eye  n  i^ht  ever 
n^  passing  glance  in.  This  prison^liscipline  had  only  existed 
wuh.n  the  i,ast  two  )ears,  and  a  dark  and  dreadful  e^nd  was 
whispered  about  through  the  dormitories  in  the  '-dead  wais  ai  d 
.nulcle  of  the  night  "  to  all  newcomers  of  the  reason  X      As 

■     i  lie'st  cr'k  f  T"'\  '^T"^'^"^'^  '''''''    ^'-^'-^^  --  top'of  the 
I     ghe.t  de.k    n  the  school-room,  her  eager  head  thrust  out  of 

the  wnulow,  tins  darmg,  ill-behaved  girl  had  deliberately  winked 

au.  p^smg  soldier  trom  tlie  dingy  old  stone  barracks'  outside 

1'^     oun.       llic    soldier   had  winked   back  again;  Uieii    this 

,    otally  depraved   Miss  Owenson  had  thrown  hun  a  kiss  •  t    "i 

n:;u£v  ;; ;? ''" '""' ''"  ^  ^•"'  ^"^^  «'■''--•'  -^  -^^^' 

u,     en  7h  ;'  '°''if  V'^'^y'^^y  ^^'^  Owenson  was  perched 

.on     he   wmdow-sill,   like  sister  Anne   on  the  watch-tower, 
U    .sec   If  there  was  anybody  coming.     Sent   by  her  g  lardian 
augel.  no  doubt,  at  this  dreadlul  juncture.  Mademoiselle  Chat- 


J2 


SYDNEY. 


cauroy  tl.t  c-IcIli  came  into  the  scliool-rooin  ;  Mademoiselle 
Chateau ioy's  Iiunified  eyes  beheld  Miss  Owensoii  with  all  the 
stii)crior  half  of  her  person  projecting  into  the  Rue  St.  Doiu- 
imque:  Mademoiselle  Chateauroy's  stunned  ears  overheard 
these  words  : 

'■I  say,  Mr.  Lobsterback,  who  is  that  lovely  young  officer  I 
saw  prancmg  all  you  fellows  to  the  English  Churcir  last  Sun- 
day ?  All  the  gnls  are  dying  to  know,  and  I  told  them  1  would 
Imd  out.     UVre  all  m  love  with  him.     Do  tell  us  his " 

Mademoiselle  Chateauroy  heard  no  more.  To  seize  ATiss 
Sydney  Owenson,  to  tear  her  from  her  perch,  to  slam  down  the 
wmdow,  to  glare  annihilation  ujjon  the  grinning  red-coat,  to 
conlront  the  otlender,  livid  with  horror,  was  but  the  work  of  a 
second. 

What  awful  fate  befell  the  culprit  no  pui)il  knew— no,  not  to 
this  day;  her  punishment  was  enshrouded  in  the  same  dark 
mystery  that  envelops  the  ultimate  end  of  the  Man  in  the  Iron 
Mask.  She  had  not  been  expelled,  that  was  clear,  for  that  was 
two  years  ago  ;  and  when  questioned  herself.  Miss  Owenson 
was  wont  to  look  for  a  moment  supernaturally  solemn,  and 
then  go  off  mto  a  jkmI  at  the  remembrance  that  made  the 
"  welkin  rinf?." 

It  IS  close  upon  five  or  this  October  evening,  when  the 
thirty-hve  boarders  of  the  pensionnat  are  disporting  themselves 
m  the  primrose  light  of  the  dying  day,  under  the  watchful  and 
Aveary  eyes  of  Miss  Junes,  the  h:iiglish  teacher.  It  is  a  French 
play,  and  a  very  noisy  one.  "  Hrother  H  crmit,  can  you  dance  ?  " 
halt  a  do/en  tall  girls  are  chanting,  in  high,  shrill,  sing-song 
JM-ench.  Shrieks  u:  laughter  rend  the  atmosphere,  and  Miss 
Jones  covers  two  distracted  ears,  and  calls  frantically,  and  calls 
m  vain:  ^ 

"Young  ladies  !  Oh,  dear  me  !  Young  ladies,  less  noise." 
Ihe  noise  grows  fost  and  furious,  the  chanting  rises  shriller 
and  shriller,  the  screams  of  laughter  wilder  and  wilder.  The 
J.rother  Hermits"  cai)er  about  like  dancing  dervishes  gone 
mad  In  the  midst  of  it  all,  a  tall,  dark,  handsome  girl,  with  a 
double  eyeglass  across  the  bridge  of  her  patrician  a.iuiline 
nose,  comes  laughingly  up  to  half-delirious  Miss  Jones. 

"  It's  more  like  a  iiuiison  de  saNt,\  with  the  lunatics  set  loose, 
than  a  decorous  young  ladies'  school,"  she  remarks.  "  i  sav 
Miss  Jones,  where  is  Sydney  Owenson  ?" 


1  don't  know.      Oh,  if  the  study  bell  would  but 


rinu:  ' 


(Jo 


and  look  lur  Sydney  Owenson  in  the  thick  of  the ///tVtV;  you'll 


SYDNEY, 


13 


"  wv?"^''  i""'"'  '■°'*^  ^°  ^^'I'l  a  yell 
Wuun  that  Clark  and  namnv  dell. 
As  dl  the   .ends  fro.n  heaven  that  fell 
Had  pealed  the  banner-cry  of ^'' 

;;MlssHench-ick!"  screamed  Miss  Jones 

^'^'^Pl^^-'miinentionablc  to  ears  polite      Don', 
fore  you're  lu.rt,  M  iss  Jones.     No   SH   s  '^th        ^     ""'^  °"^  ^^' 
manage  to  raise  all  that  racket  w  lioni  h  ''■'''  ^'''''''^""''  ^'^^^^ 

I  mint  to  tell  her  that  1'    dav  l  H  '  '- "'"^  '^^^"  •''^^'  '^^'  ? 

nicre  has  inv.ted  a     01     ch     """"^t^-;^'  ^^'^<1  ^'^at  x\[rs.  Dela- 
Parly  ather  honsi''  '''  '''^°  ^^''"  l^^'  ^^'^^^ed  to  go  to  a 

"indeed,     Miss    HendnVk  i "       Ar;        t 
le:u:lKMWlxed  two  stispidm^^^  J""^^'^'    '^'^    English 

Jl-ick's  dark,  handson^-SlnSi'^^^^  T''   '^'^^^   i^^''^" 

^"  tl^at  one  incredulous   vord  "'■''''  vohunes  of  disbelief 


^.>ynung(:ynl!aHendricksays^   vcCc,l    t'""'"'^/"^ 
^ou  see,    Afrs.  Colonel  Deku'^l^  1    ""'' ' ''^  ^■";^^ 
}ou-io  be  a  lady,  and  has  a  uvn  ...     '  '  •'''^''''^"'^^"^'"'y  ^'^'^ 

onlylohcv  house  Tn  iJwhv  '  m'"^'^'"->'^^'''«-  ^^^^^^ 
'"^"^•■'""!^I  '"erits  of  ^^^  U^^\rf''^'  ^'^^'  ^^  ^^''^1  ^o  the 
^'^^yjane,  isn't  it  MT^i^p ''T"  •^'^'''-  ^'''''''  "^"^^  ^ 
^■o,  don't  apologize  lias'  h'  ""^^^^^ '^ '".y"^"- Pniyer-book. 
-\<ault  tibeCn^S^];^:  ™:j::^--fnune  ^'^- 
name,'  etc."  ^  jaue  jouls—  A  lose  by  any  other 

in  d  '  S-^^MX;;'^  ^^'^^  ''^'  ^'^  ^"-"  ^^-  Jones's  fl.ce, 
''1'^,  Miss  C;:db  H^ndS'sa-/"^'^'^^  ^'^'"^  "''  '^^  ^--'-"- 

^'a-'selleChate.tun;";  at,  otu;n'    "   "''^'■'  ^    ""'  ^^'^    '^ 
\Vill  you,  really?^    d;!,'; ';::',!;;^:'"!  '"^i'V^^"?^"^  ^i'-^ch  ■' 


i 


iiiam'stdlt 


yoii  palpitate  in   tl 


t  cxcit 


lis  way,  soniethini 


e  y;jurseif,  de; 


be  d 


mythuig  It  pleases  yo 


wu 


Miss  J, 


)nes. 


le  urbt  time  you'v 


111"  giacious  hiLriui 


go   crack.     'I'd! 


o  earned  stoiiet;  of 


g'liiess;  It  won't 


me. 


Mad 


emoiselle 


M 


SYDNEY. 


can  get  a  better  teacher  than  you  nny  day,  but  first-rate  pupils 
don't  grow  on  every  taniarac-trec  in  Lower  Canada.  Adieu, 
dear  and  gentle  JVliss  Jones!  I  kiss  your  ladyship's  hands. 
Sychiey  !  8y(hiey  !   where  are  you  ?  " 

Slie  walked  away,  sending  her  fresh,  clear  young  voice  over 
all  the  uproar.  Miss  Jones,  the  teacher,  looked  after  her  with 
a  glare  of  absolute  hatred. 

"I'll  be  even  with  you  yet,  Miss  Cyrilla  Hendrick,  or  I'll 
know  the  reason  why !  You  have  given  me  more  insolence 
during  the  iiast  year  than  all  the  school  together.  As  you  say, 
it's  no  use  complaining  to  Miss  Chateauroy.  You're  a  credit  to 
the  school,  she  thinks,  with  your  brilliant  singing,  and  playing, 
and  paiiiting  ;  but  I'll  pay  you  for  your  jibes  and  insults  one 
day,  mark  ni)'  words — one  day,  and  that  before  long." 

"Sydney!  Sydney!"  the  clear  voice  still  shouted.  "Now, 
where  can  that  girl  be  ?  '  That  rare  and  radiant  maiden,  whom 
the  angels  call  Lenore,'     Sydney  !  Sjdney-y  !  Sydney-y-y-y  !  " 

She  stO])s,  expending  all  her  strength  in  one  mighty  shout 
that  rises  over  the  wild,  high  singing  of  the  I'Vench  Canadians, 
"  I'lere  rilermite,  savez  vous  danscr  ?  "  It  comes  pealing  to 
an  upper  window  overlooking  the  playground,  and  a  girl 
huddled  up  cross-legged  like  a  Turk  takes  two  fingers  out  of 
two  pretty  i)ink  ears,  ;ind  lifts  a  yellow  head  from  a  book  to 
listen. 

"Sydney!  Sydney  Owenson  !  Oh,  my  own,  my  long-lost 
daughter!"  cried  Miss  Hendricks  with  ear-splitting  piercing- 
ness,  "  where  in  this  wicked  world  are  you  ?" 

"  I'other !  "  mutters  the  girl  in  the  window,  and  then  the 
yellow  head,  '_'  sunning  over  with  curls,"  goes  down  again,  two 
fi  ;gers  return  into  two  ears,  a  pair  of  gray  e\es  glue  themselves 
once  more  to  the  pages  of  the  bcjok,  and  Miss  Sydney  Owenson 
is  lost  again  to  all  sublunary  things.  'I'hey  may  shriek,  they 
may  ydl,  they  may  rend  the  heavens  with  their  unearthly  cries, 
they  may  drive  Miss  Jones  deaf  and  frantic— Cyrilla  Ilendriek, 
tlif  friend  of  her  bosom,  the  David  in  petticoats  to  her  Jonathan 
ditto,  may  si)lit  her  vuice  in  her  distracted  cries  for  "Sydney;" 
S\(lney  is  a  ihouband  miles  away  ;  nothing  short  of  an  earth- 
cp.iake  may  arouse  her,  so  absorbetl  is  she. 

Ves,  something  does. 
^  "  Miss   Owenson  !  "   says   the   awful  voice  of  Mademoiselle 
Chateauroy  the  elder,  and  Miss  Owenson  droi}s  her  book  and 
jumj)s  as  though  she  were  shot.     "Miss  Owenson,  what  book 
ib  Linit?  " 


SyD,\'F.Y, 


»s 


;  picicmg- 


..nail,  very  sn.^ff^:^    J    7,  ^^l  l™;:  ■   ™"''""'^  l--a  v.,y 

rooi '?'"'  ""'="'°"'  "'■""•-■"-■  J-""  '■'■■»J"'«  >vhe„  I  entered  this 
•'  A  book,  niam'selle." 
^"  Mecs  Ovvcnson,  e^///,,/  book  ?  " 

;;..  ^K  ,„,.  „  „.a.  an  a.,  aeeS::;:n,„i  tl^Ud  TS, 
'vi.'ked'irLMfi'^';'.  ""7'-      "''^'^'"^  "'=''<^'  ''"'"^  =">y'hi..g 

..-..,.:;;^^tdix^-ad^iri:;;-'::*i"';;i 


i6 


SYDNEY. 


f  mean  it's  an  accident  my  findinnr  the  book.     It  isn't  mine  ;  I 
'lon't  know  whose  it  is  ;  I  fonnd'it  last  evening,  lying  among 


iiie  cabbages 
ihoie  now." 


-honor    bright,    mam'sclle  !      I'll    piicli  it  back 


And  then,  before  Mile.  Stephanie  can  catch  her  breath,  Miss 
Chvenson  gives  the  volume  behind  her  a  brisk  pitch  out  of 
the  open  casement,  and  it  falls  phunp  upon  the  head  of  her 
sworn  friend,  Cyrilla  llendrick. 

There  is  a  moment's  pause,  and  teacher  and  pupil  confront 
rach  other.  That  an  explosion  will  follow,  Miss  Sydney  Owen- 
son  fully  expects,  but  what  was  she  to  do  ?  Helen  Heme's 
name  was  on  the  lly-leaf.  Helen  Heme  was  a  day-scholar,  who 
.-iurrei)tiUousIy  smuggled  story-books  inside  the  sacred  walls  of 
the  pensionnat  for  the  private  delectation  of  the  boarders, 
Helen  had  been  threatened  with  exj)ulsion  the  next  time  she 
was  caught  in  the  act  "  red-handed,"  so  to  say,  and  it  was 
much  more  on  Helen's  account  Uum  on  her  own  that  Sydney 
Owenson  was  palintating  now. 

"  I  coaxed  so  hard  for  that  '  Tickwick,'  "  Sydney  thinks.  "  [ 
l)oiie  to  goodness  some  of  the  girls  will  pick  it  up  and  hide  it 
outside.  I  don't  mind  maiu'selle's  llare-up— I'm  used  to  it— 
but  I'd  never  forgive  myself  if  Nell  came  to  grief  through  me." 
She  looks  up  now  into  matlemoiselle's  indignant  face,  c!as[);5 
two  httle  white  hands  imploringly,  and  begins,  with  that  voice 
and  smile  mademoiselle  herself  declares  to  be  the  most  chann- 
mg  on  earth,  to  wheedle  her  out  of  her  just  wrath. 
_  ^"Oh,  Alam'selle  Stephanie,  Joii'ihit  angry,  please.  I  know 
its  wrong  to  break  rules,  but  then  I  am  so  tired  of  the  stupid 
old  plays  out  there,  and  the  girk  are  so  noisv  and  rude,  and  my 
head  c/id  ache,  antl  the  book  was  not  a  bad  book— upon  my 
word  and  honor  it  wasn't,  nuim'selle  ;  not  a  bit  like  a  novel  at  all, 

and  I  (/ni  [\nd  it  among  the  cal)bages  last  evening,  and ■' 

Mademoiselle  Stephanie  knows  of  old  that  Miss  Owenson  is 
perfectly  capable  of  going  on  in  this  strain  wllhout  a  singK;  full 
Jloi)  for  the  next  hour.  Therefore,  without  a  word,  she  pulls  a 
letter  out  of  her  pocket  and  hands  it  to  her  pet  pupil. 

;'  I  will  overlook  your  disol)ed!cnce  this  once,  pditc"  she 
said,  "because  it  is  i^robably  the  very  last  time  you  will  ever 
have  a  chance  to  disobey.  Read  ycnir  mamma's  letter,  my 
(K'ar;   I  know  what  it  contains,  as  it  came  inclosed  in  one  to 

me.     C/ierif;'   manrsLlle's  voice  absolutelv  falters,  "  •■ou -  ou 

are  a!.  )ut  to  leave  school." 

Syd.iey  Owenson  rises  to  her  feet,  the  gixvit  gray  eyes  dilate 


SYDNEY. 


17 


v'ciison  13 


ii";'  iS°:; .  "",::,k'":f';r"i'  ri  ^t^  '"""■  «'"■  '-^=  ••>' 

'  i  apa,"  sl)c  falters.     "  Oh  iinin\..ll,.  1    /,,'/ 

as    I     "".n      N,',''  ,'"'  ■'""■•     ^""  """■■  ^"*'-  y™  "rus^;^.. 

as  tiK  wall.     No,  pai)a  i.s  no  worse— it  isn't  tint     it  il         I 

shall -'^  '  °^  '^'  '"^'^  troublesome  pupil  n^ore  than  1 

scS''  ''"'  '^""  '^^  ^'^^^^ '  ^'  ^^  ^  ^-^^^'^y'  «PHicO',  won,an'. 

"OwENsofi  Plack,  ay^^,r  25,  18—. 

nniisMr.^  rt''/^''''"'''  ^^^^^^'"'  ^'i^  :-I  have  written  to  the  Made- 
nioisel  e.s  Chateauroy,  teliuig  them  to  have  all  thin-^s  rcndv^for 
your  departure  on   Monday,  the  third  of  Novemhe?.     Yo    are 

lea  1  vo,  I  '  ",  '  r^'  ""'  >'""•  "^'  ^'^'  taken  it  into  his 
l7:?n-7?  ^'"'^^  ''°^"  liypochondriacal  he  is-that  he  wi  11  clie 
bcfo.e  he  year  ends,  and  he  insists  that  you  must  be  married  at 
once,  else  he  wi  1  not  live  to  see  it.     ^ow  don't    voryabou 

Sir?-;??- 

anr  ;'h.  '  r/  ^"^  '"^'''^^'  ^^'''  '"^^rrying  a  chikl  of  seventeen 
and  a  boy  of  twenty-two  ;  but  what  use  ts  it  my  sayino  so  ?  / 
vas  nme-and-lwenty  when  I  nnarried  Captain  Ou^n  on      Still 

nu  It  ,  f        "      genUemanly   and    all    that,  that   any  one 

"gilt  got  along  wKh    hnn.       Rebecca   will    reach    Petit    Si 

wlnm.  to  look  down  ui)on  everything  in  f/us  country,  and 


i8 


CYRILLA. 


think  nothing  f.t  for  you  that  doesn't  come  from  Eurone      I'm 
sure  son.ctnncs  I  wonder  he  ever  n.arried  an  American  lady,  o" 

Lu    'V  n'r'"^'"'  °"   th.s  continent  f.t  for  his  only  chid. 

knovv  he  wo.dd  have  sent  you  to  tiie  Sacre  Qcur  at  Paris,  on  y 

hcccn.Idn  t  hear  to  put  the  ocean  between  hin.self  and  you.    Z 

hi.   has  noti,ing  to  (h)  with  it.     So  bid  die  youn^^  ladies  ad 

"  Your  affectionate  Mother, 

"  CuARLorric  Owenson. 

"P.S.— Bertie  sends  his  love  and  a  kiss,  he  savs  to  ill  tii« 

pretty  ,u  Is  in  the  school.     Ho  is  as  foolish  as  It;,  b.fl; 

andsome  and  elegant,  I  must  say.     Christ  Church  CoUe- Jh  i? 

.ni.roved   h.m  greatly.      Ho  wanted   to  accompany   Rebecca 

l|;.t    of  course,   1  wouldn't    hear  of   anything  so  imprope.    as 

_    ^  '  C.  O. 

nnn /'"'?■   ^"'  ^■,~,l^^  *'""  ''-^''  ^'"^^'^  ^^y^  >'0"  "i^y  invite  your 

Diuiunauls.       He    knew    her  aunt,    AI  ss    i»hillis    Dormer     in 
■-Mlam  ,  and  her  mother  comes  of  one  of  the  bes   n       ijs 
^orse  s^nre.     As  it  the  best  fomiiy  in   Dorsetshire  matter;^f  In 


CHAPTER  n. 


CYRILLA. 

[IE  long,  loosely  written,  raml,ling  letter  dropped  on 
Sydney  s  lap,   her  hands  folded  over  it,  and   she  sat 

.         tnihght  sky.      lo   leave    school  on   Monday— o    be 

sc   ui  ecn.       ,es  des  being  the  daughter  of  the  richest  mu,    l>e 
sulcs  having  double,  treble  the  spemling  nu>n.y  of  ^,y  oX^  .l    1 

mr  hC;::'^'    '"'^'^1  '^^^^''^«  ^"^^  ^^-^^^  '-^-  and  jewel^a 
Wv   .    M    ^7^    ''^'^f^^'-t^venty   and    "out,"    beside^   having 
•^-yif>    and  talent  and  goodness  and   grace,  Sydney  Owen.ou 


liad 


one  other  and  still  great 


cr  <;kuin    to 


ne 


(lueen  rose  "  of 


CYRILLA. 


lo 


>ppc(l 

on 

1    she 

sat 

It  opaline 

^— to 

be 

ol  gir 

I  of 

llKlll, 

be- 

Jlhor 

giil 

ewcls  as 

S     iulV 

-^'% 

)\V'eiy 

son 

use  " 

of 

honajide  engagement  none  of  tl^-     lul     ,  tVn'  jT''-'f''''u''' 
exception  of  Miss  OweiKon      -rt   V  i         \      ^^^''^"^"l.  with  the 

son  ,K.,i  rc-aciK.;  n:xr  :x>e  u  r;;r;  '"'■•It!"''^?  '"'-'■ 

vacation  over,  the  voumr  l-uWivVi  ."'^^''Y'  ^"«-'  niidsmniuer 
paternal  nuansion-a  oli m^  w  '^^T""^^  ^°  ^^^"^^'^^  ^^'^  her 
t-r,  a  locket P;  a  ^e  t?emw '?"":^  '"^'^^''";  ""  ""^'  «"'"  «'^- 
iutn)  around  he  whit"^  r^?"  ''-ZTx  T'^  "  '■'"^'  "^  '^'•"^^'» 
who,nitnn-glUconcern\lKU:hrwrL:^^^^^^^^  "^""""^^^»  ^°  ^^^ 

ti^;^^s:;ponxa 

ho^v  nicer'fc''rj  ?'^'  ^^^^"  ^'^'"  ••  -'^^  she  really  ?  Oh. 
Un.erecHdhe^l^P  HovfTfr'^  ^"^'^^^^  was  his  nan^^  ? 
-y?    WasiK^l':;ncL"Tt'"h^^^^^^^^  What  did  he 

ma  know  ?     Oh  what  -i  lov  l\7     ■  ,  ^  ^^^  I'''^l'^  ^^"^  "i^'"- 

wert.  thcyg„i„|,o  be  married?"  '  °    ^^'''""'^  '   "*■" 

.■.'nil  r\s-^f i4i;«~^^^^  I  ;lxzi; 

ai.c.,yna„,e  to  begin  witi,.  •  Wi-ei!  S''  1^' |  e  ?  X^'S-''^  ~ 
at  Oxford  at  present  •  at  l<>n«f  i...  '^'^^•■'  "/-  iive  ;*  He  lives 
wlien  1  left  hr  me      Vrow  du   i  ''  ?''  '"'  ^^■^>'  ^^"^^k  there 

come  about;  "was  always  .1  h/' ^'''°?  ?'  ^^^>^'  ^^  ^'i^'-^'t 
that  sort  of  thii^     Fve^^^^^^^      .^!'  ^^^'^^"^^'^1 /rom  all  time,  and 

niember  bein.^  to^d  I  was  fn  n.  ?"  '^'"^'"'^^''-  '-^"Xthing,  I  re. 
"ivself-famify  a  ll!:;^^^^  ^1^^'  if  I  behaved 

'  U'-hat  did  he  say  ?>Oh  wHI  ^1?  •  !'  ''^'^  ^^  ''^'"^'  '"  ^  ^^^'-y- 
;'^0'>  and  slippe/Ls'r!:;:^  '^,  7  C  J;'":,1 '"f  ^'J  '"^  '-■^^- 

«on.e  ? '     kandsomt  OS  ,n  an '  f  R V'  ^  "'"•'     '  ^'  ^'"^  ''^^"^^- 

"---rasachmSrL:;;^^-,^L:rg^^^^^^^ 


ao 


CYRILLA. 


earihly  world  ;  hut  as  I  am  to  have  cnongli  for  both,  that  doesn't 
signify.  'Do  papa  and  niainnui  know?'  Of  course  they  know, 
f.  Av<  !  'Vrtie  and  1  would  never  have  thought  of  such  a  ihinq 
"'  'I':'  ml  fold  us  to  lliink  of  it.  •  And  when  are  we  to  he 
»'  '     <>h,  I  <J*.m't  know — not  for  ever  so  lon^'.     I  don't 

*  .,  i  to  'e  married-  it'i  dreadfully  dowdy  and  stupid.  We  won't 
beuKurici,'  fnr  ages— not  unlil  I'ui  old— oh  !  ever  so  old— twen- 
ty-one, may  be.  It's  nice  enough  ((»  be  engaged,  but  married-— 
bali-h  h  ! " 

Miss  Owenson  nronounced  her  "bah  !"  with  the  disgusted 
look  of  one  who  swallows  a  nauseous  dose,  and  sprang  to  her 

•  f  viy,  girls  !  let's  have  agui  le  of  '  Prisoners'  Base  ;'  I'm 
dying  /or  a  romp.     Come  I" 

Miss  Owenson  had  her  romp  until  the  pearl  pale  checks 
glowed  like  twin  jjink  roses,  and  the  vivid  graj'  eyes  streamed 
wuh  laughing  light.  But  from  that  hour  a  halo  of  romantic  in- 
terest encircled  her. 

She  had  a  lover— she  was  engaged— she  would  be  married  in 
a  year.  Oh,  happy,  thrice  happy  Sydney  Owenson  I  Juery 
month  or  so  came  to  her  a  letter  bearing  the  English  postmark, 
dated  "  Ch.  Ch.,  Oxford  "—real,  genuine  love-letters.  Mile! 
Stepli;ime  shook  her  head,  and  passed  them  over  in  fear  and 
tremblui-  to  her  engaged  pupil.  She  had  never  had  such  a 
tlung  belore,  and  to  a  certain  extent  it  was  demoralizinir  the 
whole  school. 

Six-and-forty  youthful  heads  ran  more  on  lovers  than  on  les- 
sons, on  engagements  than  on  "  Telemaque "  or  "Chopin's 
VValt/es."  Miss  Owenson,  as  a  matter  of  Christian  duly,  read 
those  epistles  of  her  young  Oxonian  faitlifullv  aloud  to  her  six- 
and-forty  fellow-students.  On  the  whole,  they  were  rather  a 
disapiiomtment.  They  contained  a  great  deal  of  news  about 
boalmg  on  the  Isis,  ridmg  across  country,  college  supper  parlies, 
and  a  jolly  tune  generally,  but  very  few  glowing  luv'e.[)assa<.es 
to  his  athanced.  Indeed,  beyond  the  "  Dear  little  Syd"  at  The 
beguuung,  and  "Your  affectionate  Bertie"  at  the  end,  tiiey 
didn't  contain  a  single  protestation  of  the  consuming  pLssion 
winch  It  is  to  be  supposed  possessed  him. 

"Of  course  not,"  Sydney  was   wont  to  cry  out  indi^mantly 

yhen  some  of  the  more  sentimental  young  ladies  objected  tc 

tliese  love-letters  on  that  head.      "  You  wouldn't  have   !k-rtie 

spooning  all  the  way  across  the  Atlantic,  would  y.)M?     I  «np. 

posc,  Helen,  you  woiikl  like  the  .sort  of  letttMs   Lord  \'    -   i.-.^r 


c  YKir.r.A. 

!";,"  "f  tiK.  u-„nl,  With  Jic-rtic  Va  „      ,;  ''' ^T,  ^""""7>  '-^I'-^^-pta. 
jnllicst    old    lcllo^v    in     the    w^Hd       LiJ'      i''' ^'^ 
accustonicd   to  observe  •    "  n.ul  s  ,  '      ''  '   "'^'«    ^-'^'''''y 

>«''ly  so.ncti.ne,  she  would  r^r^:^J^JT'  '"'?'>   """- 
but  to  go  spooning  as  thev  d  d  in  S  ''"  ^">'''"^1>  else, 

oftheiu  kept  tlieir  senses ''  ^"^ks-no,  not  while  eithe; 

at  't:%:'^^Z:T^^.  S^  "",  '-^  ^''  '-^-.  one 
fill.  '  -^  •"'^     ^  ^'"''-^  pale,  and  very  tlion-ju- 

"f  all  .he  gi,ls_.v.|l  t       ,  «;„,'  h,™-'  '"/""•'  "f  ''I'""!  ami 

"I'on  (he  fatal  let.^er         '>^^>^^^"^'  ■si,lashej,  one  by  one,  down 

^^^)^n.:^^ttZ^^^^  ^"^''  -^^'^  ^  -^^'^  of 

^";<Hhe,    /..,.,elter  1      J  anpv    'h •]     '    v^li'-  • ,';  ^"^^  ^  '-'"e'-- 

"   -  c,.xpect  nothing,  for  t  ey  si     1  not  h  '  I"    '^^'-^  ''^'"^^  ^''^">' 
^vlioin  I  ain  one.     Ami  how  is  0,.  .        ^''^^pponUed  ! '  of 

"  It  isn't  from    1',  w  '  ^^^"a^tt-'ous  IJertie  ?" 

tl^e  last    eL      "  ItT  i;    ""^"'^-'''^^  S>'^""^-y,  hastily  wiping  away 
Ly.    'm  going  ,0  leave  scl.o"  1  "'      '  ~^'  S"-'="  S"'l'-"  O 

'  "i*     vS;,rto  k  ""'f '  ■'     "»l''>>'  "aPPy.  happy  "id  i 

''-Caudltking':?,;:;^,'^:'-  «''--.   P'acing  i,  i„  „„ 
t  u"t  VMUi  a  «oe-begoiic  face  at  the  fast  dark. 


22 


C  VRILLA. 


i 


Is  I 


cning  evening  sky.  One,  two,  three,  four,  five  more  evenings 
may  she  watcli  that  Httle  white,  coUl-iooking,  half  moon  iloat 
up  yoiulcr  amcjng  the  tainanics,  live  more  evenings  may  she 
listen  to  the  discordant  slirieks  of  the  thirty-four  boarders  mak- 
ing day  iiidcous,  ami  then  never  more  for  all  time.  And 
another  large  tear  comes  plump  down,  at  the  misery  of  the 
thought,  in  her  lap. 

Cyrilla  Hendrick  reads  the  letter,  and  throws  it  back  with  an 
envious  sigh. 

"  What  a  lucky  girl  you  are,  Syd  I  A  father  and  mother  who 
dote  upon  you — a  rich  father  and  mother,  a  handsome  young 
husband  waiting  for  you,  and  all  the  freedom  and  gayety  of  a 
married  woman  yours,  at  seventeen.  While  for  me — ah, 
well  !  "  with  a  bitter  laugh,  "  as  poor  Freddy  used  to  say,  '  J.ife 
can't  be  all  beer  and  skittles'  for  the  whole  of  us." 

"  I'reddy  !"  Sydney  exclaimed,  looking  \\\^  at  her  friend  with 
sudden  curiosity,  "'hat  is  the  fust  time  1  ever  heard  you  men- 
tion any  man's  name  !     Who  is  Fretldy  ?  " 

"Ah,  who  indeed?"  Miss  Hendrick  answers  with  another 
half  laugh.  "  'Thereby  hangs  a  tale,'  which  I'm  not  inclined 
to  tell  at  present.  IJut  I  say  again,  what  a  happy  girl  you  are, 
Sydney  Owensun  !  " 

"  What,  because  I  am  to  be  married  next  month,  Cy  ! " 
Sydney  cries,  opening  her  great  eyes  in  unfeigned  wonder. 
"  You  can't  mean  that." 

"  1  mean  that,  and  everything  about  your  life.  You  are  an 
heiress,  you  will  be  a  beauty,  you  have  people  who  love  you,  you 
make  friends  wherever  you  go.  Why,  here  in  school  the  girls 
swear  by  you — even  snuffy,  [)riggish,  dried-up  little  Mam'selle 
Stei)hanie,  in  her  dreary  uay,  is  fond  of  you.    At  sixteen  you  wear 

diamonds  and  '  walk  in  silk  array.'     While  1 "    Again  she 

sto[)ped,  with  a  gesture  that  was  almost  passionate  in  the  inten- 
sity of  its  envy.  S)'iiney  looked  at  her  in  wonder.  The  bitter- 
ness of  her  tone  and  words  was  a  new  revelation  ;  it  was  a 
contrast  indeed  to  the  usually  cool,  almost  insolent  serenity  of 
Cyiilla  llendrick's  manner. 

"  While  you,  Cy,"  S)dney  supplemented,  "  are  ten  times 
over  better  looking  than  1  am,  sing  better,  play  better,  paint 
and  draw  better,  sjjcak  four  languages,  and  are  the  cleverest 
girl,  mam'selle  says,  she  ever  had  in  her  school.  Yon  have  an 
aunt  who  is  fabulously  rich,  so  everybody  says,  who  has 
adoptetl  you,  and  whose  heiress  you  are  to  be.  While,  as  foi 
being  married " 


CYRIL  I.  A. 


23 


Lck  with  an 


Cyiilla    Hcndrick    huighrd,  a.s   Miss  Owenson  faUcrcil    and 
paused,  all  ner  easy  uisottciaiice  of  manner  returned. 

"  Willie,  as  lor  being  uianicd,  1  have  only  to  walk'over  to  St 
Jaccjues  Larracks  and  ask  any  of  the  officers,  and  tliey  vviH  tike 
me  on  tlie  spot— is  that  wliat  you  want  to  say,  Syd  ?  And  I  sin- 
well,  play  well,  panit  well,  and  am  a  flimous  linguist  ?  Lucky 
for  me  1  am,  smce  these  accomplishments  are  my  stock  iii 
trade,  with  whicn,  until  some  man  does  compassionate  me  I  am 
to  earn  the  bread  1  eat."  ' 

"  1  don't  understand  you." 

"Don't  you?  You  never  suspected,  I  suppose,  that  my 
brilliant  role  m  the  drama  of  life  is  that  of  governess  ?  " 

"  CJoverness  !  What  nonsense,  CyriUa.  The  rich  Miss  iJor  • 
mer's  heiress  and  niece  !  " 

"  The  rich  Miss  Dormer's  heiress  and  niece  !  Sydney  would 
you  like  to  know  exactly  ho70  much  Miss  Dormer  mean's  to  do 
for  her  i)aupcr  niece,  Cyrilla  Hendrick  ?  " 

"If  you  please,  Cy.  You  know  you  and  your  history  are 
darkest  mysteries  to  Mademoiselle  Chateauroy's  boarders'' 

Cyrilla  laughed,  still  standing  behind  her  friend.  "  1  knew  it 
chcrcbcle,  and  mysteries  we  all  like  to  remain.  Let  me  unvei' 
the  darkness  to  you  a  little.  I  was  born  in  Paris  eighteen  years 
ago  in  a  garret— mark  that,  daughter  of  Mammon  !— and  my 
mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  baronet ;  my  father  was  the  only 
brother  of  the  rich  Thillis  Dormer.  My  father  was  one  of  the 
handsomest  men,  one  of  the  cleverest  men,  and  one  of  the  most 
utterly  unprmc.pied  men  in  Kurope-a  thorough-paced  adveii- 
turer,  m  fact,  as  Aunt  Phil  takes  care  to  impress  uion  my  hmo- 
cent  mind  every  time  I  see  her— an  out-and-out  Bohemian.  Be- 
fore 1  was  twelve  years  old  I  had  traversed  the  Continent  from 

\Z.u        '""v      ""''''','■'  ^"'^  ^^^'  '^  "^^^^^  of  every  European 
l.u.gu.ige.     No  wonder  1  study  them  with  facility  now.     When  I 

was  twelve  my  fadier  came  to   England,  his    native  land,  and 

there,  m  the  parish  of  Jlloomsbnry,  we  set  up  our  household  gods, 

and  trom  utter  vagabondism  went  in  for  moderately  respectable' 

l^ohem.anism.     My  mother    was    dead-luckily   for   he,     poor 

'"'V^^^'f.^^Tf  ^''^^'^^^'^-l'^''-  i"  tl^^  JMoomsbury  establishmer.t 
-.-  h.nk  of  that,  Syd-at  twelve  years  old  !  Erom  that  until  1  was 
sixteen,  1  kept  my  lather's  house,  and  I  saw  more  of  life— re  d 
geimine  ite— in  those  three  years  than  vou.  ni,i,l<M,uji.e!le' J 
on  y  c  u  d  a_nd  heness-w.ll  ever  see  in  your  whole  n^spectable, 
J,  Ihhstine  existence  Good  heaven,  Syd!  //^e<.  liappy  i 
X  dc^h^^  E^^'^'^""^'  ^^^^^^'  ^^Sabond  father  aii/iiy 


■4 


CVU/fJ.J. 


Sli.:  slopped— iiassion.Uc  pain,  passionate  rcfjret  in  lit-r  face 
and  voice.  Sydney  Owcnson  sat  listening  with  bated  biealh 
to  tliis  marvellous  and  rather  shockini.;-  reve'lation. 

"It  was  pover'y,  Syd,  hut  picturesque  ])overty ;  that  meant 
trulHeil  turkey  and  champagne  to-day,  and  a  dry  crust  and  a 
cup  of  water  to-morrow  ;  a  seat  in  the  upper  tier  of  a  Strand 
theatre  or  Astley's  circus  among  the  gods  of  the  gallery,  hi" 
l>e:irded  men  to  take  me  on  their  knee,  and  kiss  nie,  and  pet 
me;  men  who  wrote  books,  and  painted  pictures,  who  wore 
sock  or  buskin,  wlio  got  tipsy  on  gin  and  water  or  Cliciuot,  as 
then-  finances  stood.  Men  who  taught  me  to  roll  up  their  ci- 
garettes, and  to  light  them  after.  iJy  the  way,  Syd,"  Cyrilla 
broke  ulf  her  half-bitter,  half-cynical  tone,  ending  in  a  sudden 
huigh,  ''do  you  remember  the  night,  after  I  came  here  first,  that 
Miss  Jones  cai  ,.;ht  me  smoking  a  rose-scented  ci^arette,  a  d<j^- 
en  of  you  standing  around  in  an  awestruck  and  admiring  row? 
She  told  Mademoiselle  Stephanie,  as  in  dutv  bound,  and  got  n.e 
[)umshed.  1  vowed  vengeance,  and  the  vendetta  has  waged  be- 
tween us  ever  since." 

"  1  remember,  Cy.  And  what  a  superior  being  you  seemed 
to  me,  to  be  able  to  sit  there  and  smoke  off  four  ci-arettes 
without  wincing  once  !     Go  on."  ° 

"  Oh,  well  !"  Cyrilla  said  coolly,  "  th.ere's  nothing  more  to  I'o 
on  about.  When  I  was  sixteen.  Aunt  Phil  sent  for  me,  and  I 
bade  farewell  to  old  iuigland  and  my  jolly  JJedouin  life,  and 
came  to  America,  exchanged  the  tents  of  vagabondia  for  the 
red  brick  mansion  of  resi)ectability.  She  found  me  half  sav- 
age, wholly  uneducated,  according  to  kcr  notions,  and  knowing 
a  great  deal  I  would  be  much  better  without.  She  sent  me 
here— unfolded  something  of  my  antecedents  to  horrified 
ma'm'selle,  and  1  had  to  pledge  myself  to  keep  my  disreputable 
history  to  myself  before  I  could  be  taken  into  this  spotless  fold 
of  youth  and  innocence.  That  is  three  years  ago— 1  am  almost 
nineteen,  and  at  Christmas  I  am  to  leave  school  for  good." 
"To  go  and  live  with  Miss  Dormer?" 

"To  go  and  live  with  Miss  Dormer,  in  the  dreariest,  grue- 
scjmest  old    house  in  America  ;    companion    to  the  crosscut 

spitefulest  old  woman  on  earth  ?     Don't  be  shocked,  Syd she 

IS  !  I'm  to  read  to  her,  write  for  her,  play  foi  her,  sing  for  her, 
sew  for  iier,  feed  the  birds  and  cats,  and  run  1  er  errands,  all  for 
my  clothes  and  keep." 

"  And  her  fortune  when  she  dies?" 

a    bit  of   it !      She    has  two  wills    made,    unsigned. 


"Not 


SCHOOL-GIRL    GOSSIP. 


as 


et  ill  li*,'r  face 

I  bated  brcalh 

';  that  meant 
ry  crust  and  a 
r  of  a  Strand 
le  gallery,  big 
IS  nie,  and  pet 
es,  who  wore 
or  Cli(juot,  a3 

II  up    their  ci- 
Syd,"  Cyrilla 

ig  in  a  Hutlden 
here  first,  that 
^arette,  a  do/.- 
idniiring  row  ? 
d,  and  got  nii> 
has  waged  be- 

g  you  seemed 
)ur  cigarettes 

>g  more  to  uo 
■or  me,  and  [ 
ouin  life,  aiid 
andia  for  the 

me  half  sav- 
and  knowing 
Slie   sent   me 

to  horrified 
r  disrepiital)le 

spotless  fold 
-I  am  almost 
or  good." 

cariest,  grue- 
the  crosse'st 
.'d,  Syd — she 
sing  for  her, 
rands,  all  for 


unsigned. 


One  bequeaths  her  hundred  thousand  dollars  to  endow  an 
asylum  for  superannuated  maiden  ladies;  the  other  bequeaths 
that  sum  to  myself,  on  condition " 

"  Well  ?  "     S\-dney  cried  breathlessly. 

"  On  condition  that  I'll  swear— swear  on  the  Bible,  mind  !— 
to  do  something  she  wants  me  to  do.  I  haven't  taken  the 
oath  yet,  and  1  believe,  oath  or  no  oath,  she  will  never  trust 
me  an  inch  forther  than  she  can  see  me.  *  There  is  bad  blood 
in  my  niece  Cyrilla'"— Miss  Hendrick  giows  dramatic  when 
I  she  narrates,  it  is  a  high-pitched  old  woman's  voice  that  speaks 
— "  *  all  the  Hendricks  were  reprobates— all,  every  one  ! '  'Do 
'  we  gather  grapes  of  thorns,  or  figs  of  thistles  ? '  My  niece 
Cyrilla  is— fortunately— the  last  of  the  tribe,  a  Hendrick  to  her 
finger-tips,  and  mark  my  words  !  my  niece  Cyrilla  will  come  to 
no  good  end.'  " 

"  Ugh,  how  horrid  !  "  said  Miss  Owenson,  with  something 
between  a  laugh  and  a  shudder.  "  1  wonder,  thinking  that  she 
ever  troubled  with  you  at  all." 

"So  do  I  wonder.  She  means  to  utilize  me  until  the  final 
catastrophe  comes,  and  1  disappear  in  the  outer  darkness  to 
whicii  1  was  born.  It  is  a  womlerful  old  woman— Aunt  Phil  I 
And  sometimes,  Syd,  sometimes,"  the  handsome,  youthful  face 
darkened  and  grew  sombre,  "  when  I  think  of  what  my  past 
was,  when  I  think  of  what  my  father  is,  when  I  think  of  what 
my  future  is  likely  to  be,  I  rank  Aunt  Phil  among  the  prophets, 
and  believe,  with  her,  that  her  niece  Cyrilla  vviU  come  to  no 
good  end !  " 


CHAPTER  in. 


SCHOOL  GIRL    GOSSIP. 


HERE  is  a  silence  for  a  while.     Cyrilla  Hendrick  has 
walked  away  to  the  curtainless  school  room  window, 

^    ^'"x-l  stands  looking  out  at  the  pale,  chill,  twilight  sky' 

where  a  white  moon  hangs  silvery,  a  {g\^  yellow,  frosty' 
sparklmg  stars  near.  The  tamaracs  shiver  and  toss  their 
feathery  green  plunu-,  in  the  evening  bree/e,  a  breeze  that 
bears  a  prophecy  of  coming  winter  even  now  in  its  breath. 
Miss  Hendrick's  handsome  brunette  face  looks  darker  and 
sadder  than  Sydney  Owenson  has  ever  seen  it  before. 


-M 


% 


26 


SCHOOL-GIRL    GOSSIP. 


"Ten  minutes  and  the  study  bell  will  ring,  and  this  horrid 
tumult  end,  for  which  Dicu  fiwrci.  Look  at  them,  Syd,  '  a 
motley  crowd,  my  masters,  a  motley  crowd.'  Of  course,  all 
this  I've  told  you  is  strictly  siiO  rosa.  IVIademoiselle  Stephanie, 
poor  old  siuiffy  soul,  would  go  out  of  her  senses  if  she  thought 
J  was  corrupting  her  favorite  jnipii  by  such  improper  convei^sa- 
tion." 

She  half-turned  around,  all  her  gloom  gone,  the  airy  ease  of 
manner,  so  uncommon  in  a  school-girl,  and  which  constituted 
this  school  girl's  especial  charm,  back.  Independently  of  wealth 
and  social  i)osition  (and  no  one  on  earth  thought  more  of  wealth 
and  social  position  than  this  waif  of  vagabondia),  she  liked  Syd- 
ney Owen  son  for  her  own  sake. 

"  I  promised  not  to  tell,  you  know,  Syd  ;  and,  reprobate  as 
Aunt  Phil  thinks  me,  I  like  to  keep  my  word.  1  hare  kept  it 
for  three  years  ;  all  those  noisy  girls  think,  as  you  thought  an 
hour  ago,  that  my  life,  like  their  lives,  has  been  the  quintessence 
of  dull,  drab-colorcd  gentility.  Your  papa  was  a  captain  in  the 
English  navy  once,  wasn't  he,  and  is  a  great  stickler  for  good 
birth  and  breeding  ?  I  wonder  if  he  would  ask  the  rich  and  re- 
specta!)le  Aliss  Phillis  Dormer's  niece  to  be  your  bridemaid  if 
he  were  listening  now  ?  " 

"  If  papa  knew  you  as  I  do,  he  would  like  and  admire  yon 
as  1  do,"  Sydney  cried,  waimly.  "  Who  could  help  it  ?  '  I 
never  saw  a  man  yet  whom  you  did  not  fascinate  in  ten  min- 
utes if  3  ou  chose." 

"If  I  chose.?"  Cyrilla  laughed.  "Ah,  yes,  Syd,  the  men 
hke  me,  and  always  will  ;  let  that  be  my  comfort.  1  shall  be 
one  of  those  women  whom  other  women  look  upon  askance, 
and  know  as  their  natural  enemy  at  sight,  but  men  will  like  me 
to  the  end  of  the  chai)ter.  Only  be  very  sure  of  this,  pretty 
jitde  Sydney."  She  took  the  pcaii  fair  face  between  her  two 
hands,  and  stooped  and  kissed  her.    "  You  need  never  fear  me." 

"Fear  you,  Cy  ?     What  nonsense  1      What  do  you  mean  .?  " 

"This  Mr.  liertie  Vaughan  is  handsome,  you  say,  Svd.?" 
was  Cyril  la's  inapposite  answer.     "  Let  me  look  at  his  photo 


again. 


As  a  rule  Miss  Owenson  wore  her  lover's  jiicture  and  locket 
affcjctionately  in  her  trunk,  but  she  chanced  to  have  it  on  to- 
da)'.     She  snatched  the  slender  yellow  chain  off  lier  neck  and 


handed  it  to  her  triend.      She  had  b 
Cyrilla' s  conlidence. 


een  touched   strannelv  by 


more    touchei 


still 


cai  cbS. 


by  tl 


They  had  been  good  friends  and  staunch  comrades  d 


lie    unexi)ecled 


ur- 


*Ts 


1  this  horrid             i 

:;m,  Syd,   <  a             1 

f  course,  all 

-*  Steplianie, 

she  thought              / 

er  con  versa-             ) 

airy  ease  of             ■) 

constituted              1 

tly  of  wealth              « 

re  of  wealth 

^  liked  Syd- 

eprobate  as              : 

ate  kept  it 

thought  an              ; 

uintessence 

|)tain  in  the 

ler  for  good 

rich  and  rc- 

rideniaid  if 

admire  yon              i 

,elp  it  ?  '     I 

in  ten  inin- 

d,  the   mf/i 

1  shall    be 

n   askance, 

vill  like  me               | 

this,  prt'lty 

L'u  her   two 

;rfearnie." 

-u  mi-an  ?  " 

ay,   Syd?" 

his  photo 

and  locket 

'e  it  on  lo- 

r  neck  and 

range ly  by 

mexpccted 

nrades  dur- 

SCHOOL-GIRL    GOSSIP.  27 

ing  the  ]xast  three  years,  with  the  average  of  school-girl  quarrels 
and  niake-ui)s;  but  never  before  had"  Cyrilla  fle'ndrick  been 
known  to  kiss  her  or  any  other  creature  in  the  school.  She 
was  wonderfully  chary  of  enthusiasm  or  caresses  ;  set  down  as 
"that  proud,  conceited  thing"  by  her  fellow-boarders,  admired 
and  envied  for  her  superior  cleverness  and  ease  of  manner,  and 
dark,  aristocratic,  high-bred  face,  liked  by  a  i^^w,  Sydney  Owen- 
son  chief  among  them,  and  cortlialiy  hated  by  the  many.  With- 
out knowing  why,  without  being  able  <o  reason  on  the  matter, 
they  instinctively  felt  she  was  of  them,  but  not  hke  them. 

She  came  into  their  midst  with   her  pauper  head  held  well 
aloft,  a   sort  of  defiance   in  her  black,  derisive  eyes,  a  sort  of- 
sui)erior  contempt  for  them  and   their  ignorance  of  life  in  her 
slight  sarcastic  smile.     Wonderfully  reticent  for  a  girl  of  sixteen, 
she  yet  said  things,  and  did   things,  besides  the   smoking  of 
cigarettes,  that   proved  that  she  had  lived,  before  coining  here, 
m  a  very   lifferent  world  from  any  t/iey  had  ever   known.     The 
sketchy  outline  of  her  life  she  had  given  to  Sydney  Owenson— 
the   sketchy  outline  only— ih^xa  were   details  that  might  have 
been  filled  in,  which  would  have  raised  everv  red-gold  hair  on 
AIiss  Owenson's  pretty  head  aloft  with  dismay.     She  had  seen 
hie  with  her  "handsome,  clever,  reprobate  father,"  as  luckily 
It  kills  to  the  lot  of  few  daughters  ever  to  see  it.      IJacchana- 
han  nights  of  gambling,  song-singing,  wine-drinking,  and  festive 
uproar.     There  was  not  a  capital  in  Europe  which  she  and  her 
doll  had  not  visited  at  the  age  of  twelve.     She  had  spent  tnree 
whole  months  behind  his  chair  at  Baden-Uaden,  with  a  pin  and 
a  perforated  card,  and  starved  and  feasted  as  he  lost  or  won. 
Ah  the  jolly  outlaws  of  Bohemia  had  lounged  in  the  shabby 
rooms  ot  "Jack  Hendrick,"  where  a  perpetual  "tobacco  par- 
liament"   seemed    to  reign.       Scions  of  aristocracy,  youthful 
si>rip  ot  gentility,  deep  in  the  books  of  the  children  of  Israel, 
made  it  their  headquarters  and    lounging-place,  and  lost  their 
last  sovereign   to   their  genial   host.      Clever  painters,  whose 
pictures  hung  on  the  line  in  the  Royal  Academv,  had   painted 
"Little    Beauty   Hendrick  "—as    Cyrilla    had    been    named— 
painted  her  as   Cupids,  as   Undines,  as   Hebes,  as  gyi)sies,  as 
angels,  as  everything  a  plumi),  i)retty,  black-eyed   rosebud  of  a 
child  could  be  painted.     Clever  actors  gave  her  orders  to  their 
plays,  and  coached  her  in  small  private  theatricals.     Old  Jean 
Jacciues  Dando,  teacher  of  the  ballet  of  the  Princess  Theatre, 
taught  her  to  dance,  and  the  firr,t  violinist   taught    her  to  play 
die  liddle.      She  could  jabber   in   five    dli"f.aent  languag.-s  at 


s8 


SCHOOL-GIRL    GOSSIP. 


twelve,  and  read  French  novels  by  the  wholesale.  Tall  booted 
and  s])urred  iniHtary  swells  ha(l  carried  her  aloft  on  their 
shoulders,  and  taught  her  to  roll  and  light  their  cigarettes. 
Midnight,  as  a  rule,  was  this  little  damsel's  hour  of  lying  down, 
and  noonday  her  time  of  rising  up.  Then,  in  the  midst  of 
this  jolly,  va^'-abond  career,  came  Miss  Phillis  Dormer's  offer 
and  its  acceptance. 

"Will  you  go,  IJeauty  ?"  her  father  said,  doubtfully.  "It 
will  be  beastly  dull  without  you,  but  the  old  girl's  rich,  and  in- 
tends to  make  you  her  heiress,  no  doubt.  She'll  send  you  to 
school,  and  do  the  handsome  thing  by  you  when  she  dies. 
Will  you  go?" 

'•  Yes,  father,  I'll  go,"  Cyrilla  answered,  ])romptly,  "  I'll 
pack  my  trunk  and  be  ready  at  once.  Freddy  says  there's  a 
steamer  to  sail  day  after  to-morrow." 

"Ah  !  Freddy  says,"  her  father  repeated,  still  looking  at  her 
doubtfully.  "  Look  here,  Keauty !  I  wouldn't  say  anything 
about  Freddy,  or  the  rest  of  'em  over  there,  if  I  were  you. 
Just  tell  the  old  girl  and  the  other  Philistines  you  meet  that  you 
came  of  poor — poor,  but  honest — parents  you  know.  Minn's 
the  word  about  the  card  playing  and  the  scampering  over  the 
world,  and — the  whole  thing,  in  short." 

"You  may  trust  me,  fother.  I  know  when  to  hold  my  tongue 
and  when  to  speak.  1  haven't  lived  with  you  sixteen  years 
for  nothing,"  cahnly  says  Mademoiselle  Cyrilla. 

"  No,  by  Jove  !  "  Jack  Hendrick  cried,  adnnringly.  "  You're 
the  cle\erest  little  thing  that  ever  breathed,  iV'auty !  You 
know  on  which  side  your  bread's  buttered.  And  you'll  not  for- 
get the  dear  old  dad,  eh,  Cy  ?  out  there  among  the  purple  and 
fme  linen,  and  your  first  taste  of  respectability?" 

So  Cyrilla  came  and  was  received  by  Miss  Dormer— a  i)ale, 
dark  girl,  tall  and  slim,  quiet,  silent  and  demure.  Put  Aunt 
Phil  had  the  keenest  old  eyes  that  ever  sparkled  in  the  head  of 
a  maiden  lady  of  sixty,  and  read  her  like  a  book. 

"Ha!"  the  old  voice  scornfully  cried  ;  "you  live  sixteen 
years  with  Jack  Hendrick  and  then  come  to  me  and  try  to  take 
me  in  with  your  mock  modest  airs  !  liut  I'm  an  old  bird,  and 
not  to  be  caught  with  chaff.  You're  a  very  pretty  girl,  Cyrilla 
—you  take  after  your  father  in  that — and  you  hold  your  beg- 
gar's head  well  u;),  which  I  like  to  see.  You  take  that  and 
your  aquiline  nuse  from  your  mother.  Your  mother  was  a  iool, 
my  dear,  as  1  supi)ose  you  know,  and  proved  her  folly  to  all  the 
world,  by  riun)ing  away  with  handsome,  penniless,  scoundrelly 


SCHOOL-GIRL    GOSSIP. 


ap 


dl  booted                1 
on   their                  ■' 
igarcttes.                  i 
ng  down, 
midst  of 
er's  otifer                 i 

lly.     "  It                 ? 
\  and  in-                 | 
d  you  to 
she   dies. 

y.     "  I'll 
there's  a 

ig  at  her 
any  tiling 
ere  yon. 
that  you 
Mum's 
over  the 


ly  tongue 
en  years 

"You're 

!      You 

I  not  for- 

irple  and 

—a  ])ale, 

lut  Aunt 

head  of 

!  sixteen 
^  to  take 
)ird,  and 
,  Cyrilla 
our  beg- 
hat  and 
IS  a  iool, 
0  all  the 
uudrelly 


Jack  Hcndnclc.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  baronet,  and  en- 
gaged to  a  colonel  of  the  (niards— Lord  Hepburn  to-day— and 
she  ran  away  one  night,  just  three  weeks  before  her  appointed 
wedding,  wuh  your  father.  Ah  !  well,  she  paid  for  that  bit  of 
romance,  and  is  m  her  grave  long  ago— the  very  best  place  for 
her.  ]5ut  you're  a  Hendrick,  my  niece  Cyrilla— a  Hendrick  to 
the  backbone,  and  a  precious  bad  lot,  1  have  no  doubt.  I 
never  knew  a  Hendrick  yet  who  came  to  a  good  end -no,  not 
one  !  and  you  take  care,  niece  Cyrilla,  or  you'll  come  to  a  bad 
end,  too." 

_  "  1  dare  say  I  shall,"  niece  Cyrilla  answered,  coolly,  seeing 
in  a  moment  that  perfect  frankness  was  best  with  this  extraor- 
dniary  old  flury  godmother.  "  My  father  always  taught  me 
tiuit  coming  to  grief  was  the  inevitable  lot  of  al'l  things  here 
below.  At  least  I  hope  I  shall  do  it  gracefully." 
^  "I'm  going  to  send  you  to  school,"  the  old  lady  pursued, 
"for  three  years,  and  mind  you  make  the  most  of  your  time. 
You  are  as  ignorant  as  a  Hottentot  now  of  all  you  ou'r/u  to 
know,  and  horribly  thorough  in  all  you  ought  tiot.  I  siiall  send 
you  to  the  Demoiselles  Chateauroy,  at  Petit  St.  Jacques— a 
very  strict  school  and  a  very  dull  place,  where  even  you  cannot 
get  into  mischief.  And  mind  !  don't  you  go  contaminating 
your  fellow-pui)ils  by  tales  of  vagabond  life  !  Don't  you  oftend 
me,  niece  Cryilla  ;  1  warn  you  of  that." 

"  I  don't  intend  to,  Aunt  Phil,"  the  girl  answered,  good- 
humoredly.  "  I  shall  study  hard,  and  be  a  credit  to  you  ;  trust 
ine.  1  know  my  ignorance,  and  am  as  anxious  to  shake  the  dust 
ot  vagabondism  otf  my  feet  as  you  can  possibly  be.  I  shall  do 
you  honor  at  school." 

Siie  had  kept  her  word.  She  was  brilHantlv  clever,  and 
amazed  and  delighted  her  teachers  by  her  progress.  She  was 
the  pride  of  the  school  at  each  half-yearly  exhibition  ;  her  play- 
ing,  her  singing  were  such  as  had  never  been  heard  within 
these  walls  before.  And  in  the  small  milk-and-water  drama- 
performed  on  these  occasions  she  absolutely  electrified  all  '  .- 
holders.  In  truth,  she  did  it  so  well  that  the  Demoiselles  Cha- 
leauroy  were  almost  alarmed. 

"She  goes  on  more  like  a  real  play  actress  than  a  school- 
girl,  they  said  ;  "  it  can't  be  the  first  time  she  has  tried  parlor 
tiieatncals." 

It  was  not,  indeed.  And  at  one  of  these  exhibitions  a  little 
liicidenthad  occurred  that  disturbed  Ma'm'selle  Stephanie  more 
and  more.     The  rooms  were  crowded.    "  Cinderella  "  had  been 


3° 


scnooL-GiRL  cossrn. 


dramati/ed   expressly   for   tlie   occasion,   and  "Miss   C.    Hen- 
(Irick  "  caiiic  on  as  die  I'rince,  in   plumed  cap  and  silk  doublet, 


aeini'f  lier  pait,  as  ustia! 


iOii  a/itore,  a 


nd 


niak 


niLT  much  nion 


violent  love  than  ever  .MIK-.  Stephanie  had  intended  to  the  C 


dcrella  of  the  piece.      A 


Ul- 


S  SUl' 


audi 


came  gracefully  forward  before  (he 


ence,  suiifniLf  a  soniz. 


a  tall, 


newly  arrived  from  jji-land,  had  started  ui 


ciaslnng-lookuig  man,  an  otiticei 


drick  ! 


It  is!"  he  exclaimed  ;  "by  Jupiter,  it  is! — I 


Jeauty  Hen- 


Miss  Hendrick  had  flashed  one  electric  glance  from  her 
black  eyes  upon  him,  and  the  play  went  on.  People  stared 
the  Demoiselles  Chateauroy  turned  i)ale ;  pupils  pricked  uji 
curious  little  ears  and  looked  askance  at  the  big  trooper. 
'■  He  knew  Cy  Hendrick,  and  called  her  JJeauty.  What  did  it 
mean  ?  "  ^ 

The  performance  over.  Major  Po\vc"scourt  sought  out  Mile. 
Stephanie,  and  a  low  and  earnest  conversatl  )n  \'nsued— the 
gentleman  pleading,  the  lady  inexorable. 

"IJut  1  knew  her  in  England,  knew  her  intimately,  by 
Jove!"  said  the  gallant  major,  ])ulling  his  long  red  inustache 
m  perplexity.  "Just  let  me  speak  to  her  one  moment, 
mademoiselle  ! " 

Mademoiselle  was  resolute. 

"  1  would  be  very  happy,  monsieur,"  was  her  answer,  polite, 
but  inexorable,  "  but  it  is  her  aunt's  wish  that  she  makes  no 
new  gentlemen  ac.iuaintances  and  renews  no  old  ones.  What 
Monsieur  the  major  asks  is,  I  regret,  impossible." 
_  "Confound  her  aunt!"  Major  Powerscourt  muttered 
inwardly,  but  he  only  bowed  and  turned  away.  "  Little  Jieauty 
Hendrick  !  and  here  !  J5y  Jove  !  it  will  go  hard  with  me  thouLdi 
if  I  don't  see  her."  ^ 

See  her  he  did  not.  IVfademoiselle  Ste])hanie  spoke  a  few 
low-toned  words  to  her  tall  pupil.  Miss  Hendrick  listened 
with  downcast  eyes  and  closed  lips  ;  then  she  bowed. 

"  It  shall  be  as  ma'm'selle  pleases,  of  course,"  she  answered, 
quietly.  "  1  have  no  wish  to  transgress  even  the  sli>nitest  of 
my  aunt's  commands."  ° 

With  the  words  she  left  the  parlors,  and  appeared  no  more. 
Next  morning  she  went  for  the  midsummer  vacation  to  "  Dormer 
Lodge."  When  she  returned,  the  dangerous  Major  Powers- 
court  was  gone. 

Miss  Jones,  the  second  English  teacher,  had  been  one  of  the 
witnesses  of  this   scene.     Miss   Jones   set   hei    thin   lips,  and 


s  C.    Hen. 

Ik  (l()iil)lct, 
luich  iiioro 
to  the  Ciii- 
bffore  the 
,  an  ol'ticoi 

auty  Hen- 

fiom   her 
)le  stared 
pricked  ii}! 
i^  troo|)er. 
/hat  did  it 

out  Mile, 
sued — the 

lately,  by 
mustache 
aioment. 


'cv,  polite, 
makes  no 
.>s.     What 

muttered 

le  Jieauty 
ue  though 

)kc  a  {cw 
:  listened 

inswcred, 
ightest  of 

no  more. 
"  Dormer 
■  Towers- 

•ne  of  the 
lips,  and 


"SO    YOUXG,    AND  SO    UNTENDERV  Jl 

dre^^  her  own  conclusions.  She  hated  Cyrilla  Hendrick  with  an 
absolute  hatred,— hated  her  for  her  beauty  and  that  indelinable 
au-  of  liaug  itv,  hi-h-brcd  grace  that  encircled  the  girl, -hated 
her  lor  her  bright  cieverness  and  talent,— hate<'  her  most  of  all 
tor  her  cool  impertinence  to  herself.  There  was  a  Ion-  debt 
Htandmg  between  these  two,-a  long  debt  of  petty  tyrannies  on 
llie  teachers  part,  of  serene,  smiling  insolence  on  the  pui)il's 

And  if  the  day  ever  comes.  Miss  Hendrick,"   Miss  lon'c- 
u-as  wont  to   thmk— "and  I  think  it   will-I'll  pay  off  every 
atiront,  every  sneer,  every  scornful   smile   and    innuendo  with 
'compound  mterest." 

That  day  was  nearer  than  Miss  Jones  dreamed. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


« 


so  YOUNG,  AND  SO  UNTENDER.'' 


RLL,  the  sweet  g.rl.sh  voice  of  Sydney  Owenson 
cried  "have  you  fallen  asleep  over  Jiertie's  picture, 
Cynlla  ?     What  do  you  thu)k  of  it  ?-handsome,  isn'i 

Cyrilla  looked  up.  She  had  been  critically  examining  the 
ell  looking  photographe-d  face  of  Mr.  15ertie  Vaughan  through 
he.  eyeg  ass,  m  silence,  fer  the  last  three  minutes!  The  dark 
eyes  bn  hant  as  stars,  were  a  tritle  short-sighted,  black  as  it  is 
o.sible  for  luunan  eyes  to  be,  and  consequently  the  least  attrac- 
ti\  e  leatiire  in  the  very  attractive  face.  She  dropped  her  glass 
now,  and  returned  the  portrait  to  its  owner  ^ 

you.?'-'^  '"'"'''°'"'''  ^"^^'^  ^"^-y«"  ^°»'t  be  offended,   will 

"  Oh,  dear,  no  !     Why  should  I  ?     (Jo  on  " 

1  sI.I.'miS'^'^''''"'  \f ""  ""."'^  womanish,  rather  fickle  and  unstable, 
1  should  say.  Not  the  sort  of  man  to  pin  your  faith  to  too 
securely.  Men  wth  that  sort  of  mouth  and  the.  .re  ty  'hdS 
Innples  m  the  dun  are  always  weak-mmded.  \ou  don't  mid 
my  saying  this,  do  you  .?  "  "" 

."Not  a  bit.     Poor,  dear  old  Pertie  !     I  think    T  lit,.  W..-.1- 
"Huded  men,  Cy.     It  iie  were  stern  and  dignified,  and  alfthai 

";  toll ro"'  ""  ""f  "^',  ''■"^'"^^^'  ^'  1^'"'  '  claresay,  and 
try  to  improve  me,  and  not  let  me  have  my  own  way.    I  should 


52  "SO    YOUXG,    AND  SO    UNTENDER:' 

kuc  being  impnwod,  nn.l  I  always  mean  to  have  .ny  own  way. 
"No  you  don't,  Sydney.     You  may  think  so  now,  but  vou 

;  p"  ;  W  ^r  '  '"'^'"V'  >•""  ^'-  '--  "■-"'  trust  ^^d  iS 
11  to.  And  there  are  such  men,  for  I've  met  them-.rlorioug 
fellows,  worth  a  woman's  giving  her  life  for.     Thai's  thA       of 

hu^baml  for  you,  c/icne,  wiiile  1 " 

"  Yes,  Cy." 

"  VVhile  I  want  one  who  will  look  up  to  me-not  a  Uertie 

Vaughan  cxactly-I  wouldn't  like  a  fickle  man-but  a  hus  la  d 

whom  I   can  rule,  who  will  let  uk-   henpeck   him,  ins  I 

couldn't  love  a  man  1  had  to  look  up  to-ifs  dreadf  dly  ti  e  ome 

ookmg   up.     And  I  wouldn't   live  with  a  n,an  I  coidd  't      ve' 

%dnc!;^:;;her"  ^^  '"^  '"^'^^'^  '^''^-^^  -^  '">'  ^--ip^-- ' 

"il/<v/  JJh-u/  only  hear  her  I     One  would  think  she  had  all 

moment  U  transformed  her.  ^'  '^  ^ 

"  ^,vf>  ^yd;"  slie  said,  softly  ;  "  I  have  met  my  ideal    roor 
clear    utle  fellow,  and  loved  hin.  well,  before  1  ever  savV  von' 
Ah!  those  were  ,he  best  days  of  n.y  vd  1  beg  n  to  think     an   ' 
Uko  all  best  thmgs,  they  are  gone  forever."     ^  '       ''' 

infiniy"""  "''?'','•■"  r'''''     '^"^  ^  g''-l  ^'   handsome  as  you  nre 
finite  cai,ab.htjes  he  open,  as  Carlyle  would  say.     l\   edict 

that  you  will  make  a  bnlliant  match/ Cynlla  "  ^ 

"I  mean  to,  Sydney.     That  is  why  I  am  heiC,   Every  accom 

^7f  r7  T  "^  '''y  S«°^J  looks,  are  so  many  ste  ^ 
toward  that  end.     I  mean  to  marry  well-that  is   i  ri^h  , 
He  n.ay  be  old  as  the  everlasting  lui,  he  n  "  be'.Hyt  Cali- 
ban, he  n,ay  be  vulgar,  he  n,ay  be  absolute  y  id  olk-i^^H 
wme  roses,  hke  TUania,  around  his  ass's  head,^an     bow  n  yself 

;.^f ;  in  t^r  1^  ^z:::i'/2:;^:r:z;-f^ 
"''A:;:r;J:-e^^;!;;:rr^ 

we'Iut^hn^H"]-     P'^'^'^.'^y  '^^^-^^-     I  ^von>t  hennerk   .,.« 
B^;  if    1,    V  !  i  ^"^^''  '""'^'>'  '^^  "^  '-^11  things  as  'l  please 

But  ,f  the  fortune  of  war  should  go  against  me,  Sydney/ a^di 


"SO   YOUNG,   AND  SO    UNTENDF.R:^ 


u 


fail   and  come  to  grief,  as  Aunt  I'hil  says  I  slull    I  w.,n 

evil .,,,.,  .0.  M..  „.  r";wr!vi:n;t  X  r 'IS' 

"Your  fai,l,f„l  and  ,ir,n  f,i';„'|"io  .h",,,,""""-'''  '^'"-     «"*■■* 

\vx2\   m-l'"'"."'"^^  ^?^'^''-'"  "■'''"  Cyrilla  Hcn.lrick  said      "  I 
^^•' A..d  you  haven't  |,roumed  to  be  ,„y  Lidesnmid    Will  you, 

K.;:  °f  rr.,e";ruri^iii'.idr '°  r '  ?"" '-"'  -^ 

ami  ri;spcctiibio  associations.    Apropos  of  llip  iiVI,  .,,,1 
able,  we're  asked  .0  a  small  dinn'er  a'  Mrs  Co  lo'ef      l!''""'"' 
01.  I.nday  evoning-Hallowe'c,  you  knLw       VI  'yoi^o  ?'•'•' ' 
om.    s'  '■  "o7^'i,e  nl  tl'r::^;"  "■"'■  '"^  --  of  tlTo^now 

iil;::  a^-;p-- -' -™-o;:f:;- 

he  folding  door,   of  the   schoolroom   lie vv  open  and  Mi.« 

L)nlla  sauntered  away  to  her  desk,  singing  as  she  went : 

•«Oh,  for  Frkky  niglit, 

Friday  al  the  gli)aining  ; 

Oh,  for  I'riilay  night 

^  Friday's  lon^;  a-coniing." 


34 


**S0    VOirNG,   AA'D  SO   Uh^TEMDER^ 


"No  sin.'^iiv^r  ji,  study  Iioiirs,  Mi.s  HL-ndrick  1 "  cried  Nfiss 
Jones,^  Hh.ii|i|y,  with  x  thish  of  Ikt  |);ilo  eyes. 

Cyiilla  smiled  -I he  smile  tiiat  always  galled  Miss  Jones  more 
than  words,  and  vveiit  Iiummin.,'  on  her  way  unheeding  : 

'•Oh,  for  i'Viday  nij,'ht, 
Tlii-ii  my  true  love's  coming." 

"  I  shall  report  yon  to  Mademoiselle  Chatcauroy,  Miss 
1 1 eu' 'rick  !  "  Miss  Jones  angrily  cried. 

"  What  !  agani  ?  I'oor  Aladenioiselle  Chateaiiroy,  to  l)e 
conipelled  to  listen,"  Cyrilla  answered,  mockingly,  taking  her 
seat  and  her  books. 

Silence  fell,      l-'ive  and  thirty  girls    bent  five  and  thirty  heads 

over  five  and  thirty  books  for  the  space  of  half  an  hour then 

the  lotul  ringing  of  a  bell,  then  a  sinuiltaneous  jumj)  of  five  and- 
thirty  gnls  on  their  feet,  a  hustling  of  books  into  desks,  doors 
filing  wide,  and  a  marshalling,  two  deep.  Miss  Jones  at  their 
head,  and  in  strictest  silence,  down  stairs  to  the  refectory. 

'I'lie  meal  was  eaten,  still  in  silence, — Miss  Jones  read  aloud 
some  drearily  instructive  book,  then  back  to  the  school-room 
—  more  study — another  half-hour's  recreation,  and  then  to  their 
rooms  for  the  night.  It  was  one  among  Miss  Jones's  manifold 
duties,  to  go  the  round  of  the  rooms  ami  remove  the  lights. 
The  chamber  of  Cyrilla  Ileiidrick  and  her  companion  was  the 
very  last  of  the  row,  but  to  that  room  ^^iss  Jones  spitefully 
went  first.  Miss  Ilendrick  was  busily  writing  out  to-morrow's 
German  exercise. 

"Wi.at!  so  soon?"  she  cried  out.  "  Antoinette,  look  at 
your  walch.  Miss  Jones  must  have  made  a  mistake.  It's  a 
good  ten  minutes  yet  to  nine,  and  I  haven't  my  exercise  done." 

"  It's  nine  o'clock.  Miss  Hendrick,"  Miss  Jones  retorted 
giimly,  seizing  the  lamp.  "If  ■  i  are  behind  with  your  exer- 
cise it  is  your  misfortune,  not  m^     ailt." 

She  i)aused  a  moment,  lamp  in  hand,  and  gazed  at  Cyrilla's 
indignant  face  with  ill-concoaled  exultation. 

_"  You  made  a  mistake  this  afternoon,  Miss  Hendrick.  I  am 
going  on  l-Viday  night,  in  charge  of  yon  and  die  others,  to  Mrs. 
Delamere's." 

Miss  Hendrick  might  be  discoir.fited,  never  defeated.  At  a 
niomeiu's  notice  she  was  ever  ready  to  do  battle  with  her  foe. 

".\re  yuu,  Mi.-s  Jonc^?  Pocir  Mrs,  Delamere!  J:iut  she 
must   expect  to  [kiv  soiiie  penalty  if  she  7inll  ask  school-uirls 


)ncs  more 


"SO    VOfAVa,   AND  SO   UN  TENDER:^  35 

•     >;^'^""^'r'--  vv..  .  lur  naiunil  dislike  of   'canaille,  t.o."       ^ 
A   A,    .nK'l?f''"   '^'^'  ''^"'  '  ""  ^'yill^^  ^vas  ucnt   t<,  wing. 

Alii      mos  hU  iTh  "■  '"■'^''"-     ^''^^-''-^r'"-!  ^vitl.  the  lau.p. 
jviiss  j()!K'^  ti.ul  lilt  till;  room. 

Kirl'^!^  W;/  S^'v'"'  '^^'^^  ">M>cTli.u.nt  yo,,  arc  !  "  the  French 
nl'l^:^;";;^?'.      ^'"  >"•  "^^^  ^"--^  ^'-  -"  -port  you  to 

Mi^s^i'lif.^f'-  T-'"'"'=  ''^'^  '"■'"^''^^'  an,nsen,cnt  of 
w  '!!     -n  1  reportnig  nie  to  inaclenioiselle.     I  don't  know 

at  healthful  stunulus  is  taken  from  her  sluggish  blood      Now 
then,  Jonielte— to  l,td,  to  bed'"  ' 

i)unirtn"Il?  •'''',  ^^V""'^^'"^''^,  Chateauroy  did  not  allow  their 

s'ni::;..^  in'?::;it:!'s;:  ]r;:^.^  ^^^^  ^^^  n- 

wu^  t^f  c  i  ^h''T  '"'■'  f  ''"''^'"'^^  ""''"^  ^^<\^^^.  The  girls 
vuc  to  quit. the  pen^nnnuU  so  soon  and  "come  out,"  that  to 
accept  a  few  mvitafons  to  innoxious  tea-parties  and  du  ne  s 

J  cmoiselks  Chateauroy  or  one  of  the  under  teachers  invarii^ 
y  wen  along  to  keep  a  watchful  eye  on  their  chargt^  a  ml  'e 
tha  the  masculine  element  was  not  too  dan-crous  It  ^l^^<\l 
u-uerstood  thing  pa,  ticularly  when  an  in^U:,!^  ca^n^l^i^n 
Als  Colonel  Delauu-re,  that  no  officer  under  half  a  centu  y 
was  to  put  in  an  appearance.  ^eiuury 

cn^ch  in'nrr"M""'  '' ''''^^y/^^-':"""".  then,  destined  to  make  an 
epoch  in  n  ore  than  one  of  their  lives,  the  young  ladies  five  in 
m.inber,  with  Miss  Jones  in  the  role  of  gumlhn  iS\^^  o  ,? 
at  lour  o'clock  down  the  Rue  St.  Dom^:  l^i'' ti  ^LUme 
t Hi  M'i  sir  '•^'^'^^^'^^  ^l'-%^'-Jo"-l  '>elan;ere,  Miss  ilenlrick 
J  H  I  ..  Owenson,  as  usual,  walking  arm-in  arm,  as  usual,  also 
.  uk  ng  a  very  pretty  contrast-a  fact  which  the  elder  of  ,1  e     vo 

w       K^Hcir,^'' ■  "  «^'-"^^'"^''i"--its  rich  tints  setting  of 
vn  f      r  '^  '^^•^"ty,  a  rullle  of  thread  lace   at  throat    vnd 

g.  d^ML^H'T"*^'!'??'^  "^^'  -rrings  of  .ubies  am    1  ne 
t      i\n,l  ^^'"'^'■'^'^  '^^^^1  brought  these  jewels  with  her  fron 

i^ngiand,  and,  apart   from  their   intrinsic  worth    and   extreme 
becoinin<rne.<<  fr>  h,.r  hrnnotfp  f-,-^   ,<i       j    1  extreme 

-r  Drunctte  la<-e,  valued  i\\<im  as  parting  git"ts 


■ 


'He 


Freddy." 
gave  them  to  me  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  nearly 


36 


"SO    YOUNG,   AND  SO    L/NTENDER:' 


rmnecl  himself,  poor  little  dear  "—.Miss  llcndrick  always  s.K.ke 
(;f  this  gentleiiiaii  as  though  he  were  seven  years  old—"  to  bay 
them.  As  Mademoiselle  Stei)hanie  would  Siw,  'I'Ved  is  as  noor 
r.s  mouses  of  the  church.'  " 

Miss  Owenson,  in  tuniuoise  blue  silk,  her  droopin'^,  sun- 
bright  ringlets,  tied  back  into  a  knot  of  blue  ribbon,  falling 
loosely  over  her  shoulders,  looked  by  contrast  white  and  i)ure 
and  fair  as  a  lily.  She  wore  no  adorn ings,  except  her  shining 
engagement  ring  and  her  chain  and  locket. 

''  1  can't  quite  realize,  Syd,"  Miss  Ilendrick  observed  thought- 
lully,  "  that  this  time  next  month  you  will  be,  as  people  phiase 
old  p,^''^!'''^^^^^*-'  married  woman.'     And  only  seventeen  years 

"It  does  seem  absurd,  doesn't  it?"  Sydney  laughed  •  "it  is 
absurd.  1  wish  poor  papa's  crotchet  had  taken  any  other  form  • 
but  since  it  has  taken  this,  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  obedience! 
i  would  do  much  more  uni>leasant  things  than  marry  Bertie  to 
please  poor,  sick,  hypochondriacal  jupa." 

Cyrilla  looked  at  her  curiously, 

"You  are  an  oddity,  Sydney-half  child,  half  woman  ;  I 
V°u.^han?''     ""'^'''■'^^"''    y°^"-      ^"    y^^i    love    this    liertie 

Sydney  laughed  again,  and  blushed— that  bright,  flitting 
blush  that  made  her  pearl-clear  face  so  lovely  ^ 

".i^ove  ?-love,  Cyrilla  ?  "  The  girl  of  seventeen  pronounced 
the  incisive  word  shyly,  as  most  girls  of  seventeen  do.  "  Oh 
wel  ,  that  s  another  thing,  you  see-something,  I  fancy,  one 
thinks  more  of  at  seven-and-twenty  than  at  seventeen  Of 
love,  suc.i  as  1  have  read  in  novels  and  poetry,  1  know  nothing. 
I  am  no  sure  I  ever  want  to  know.  As  Lxv  as  I  can  make  out, 
love  and  misery  are  synonymous.  No,  I'm  not  in  love  with 
Bertie— I'm  tolerably  sure  of  that." 

"Nor  he  with  you?" 

"Nor  he  witii  me.  How  could  we— only  boy  and  girl? 
Since  I  was  ten  years  old,  and  Bertie  fifteen,  papa  gave  us  to 
understand  we  were  to  marry  some  day,  and  wi  ne^ver  made 
any  objections.  I  like  Be-rtie  better  than  any  one  1  ever 
knew— that  is  enough."  ^ 

"  Knough  ?  Oh,  you  poor  child  !  You  like  Bertie-yes,  and 
someday,  when  you  are  ten  years  older,  the  right  man    ihey 

o  .^,    hT  -n   ^  "^'^  '"^'",  '"^''  ^"   "^  "^'  ''"  ''^  *^"'y  wait  long 
c.uH.^!      w!  1  appear  on  the   scene,  and   tiien-and  AV.w    :..,{ 

you  ^ull  wake  u])  and  know  what  love  and  marriage  mean  '       ' 


"SO    YOUNG,   AND  SO    UNTENDER» 


ways  spoke 
1— "  to  buy 
d  is  as  ])oor 


37 


'>\>\w 


»» 


snn- 


bon,  falling 
e  and  i)ure 
her  shining 

'ed  thought- 
3ple  phrase 
iteen  years 

led  ;  "  it  is 
)ther  form ; 
obedience. 
y  Bertie  to 


woman  ;  I 
his    liertie 

ht,   flitting 

ronounced 
io.  "  Oh, 
ancy,  one 
teen.  Of 
w  nothing, 
make  out, 
love  with 


and  girl  ? 
^ave  us  to 
vcr  made 
le   1   ever 

—yes,  and 
nan  (ihey 
wait  loiiL' 

ican,' 


,vh°"' a,H"'  ^'■'■""^  '"'S''^'''  '■"'""'-""  "■-'='''  <=l--.  "--■-''• 

nr^x't^^^'^HV"^"'"'^"^''  ^"'""^'^  sentimental!  What  shall  I  hear 
next?  Have  you  been  readmg  French  novels  latelv  Cv  ?-^ 
that  sounds  hke  an  extract.  Oh,  no,  Cvrilla !  "-the  iirl^  fa^ 
grew  suddenly  grave-"  I  an.  not  a  bit  like  one  of  the^Tero  nea 
of  your  pet  romances.     When  I  am  Bertie's  wife  1  wil    W 

^""-^f;  ^T,  ^^""  ^'^'^   '"y  ''^'^^^  ^'^^'^ ;  and  no  m:^    in  aU 
h  s  world  W.11  be  to  me  what  he  will.     Of  love,  as  you  mean 
I  know  nothing  ;  but  that  I  will  be  Bertie's  tru^  and  lovarvife 
I  know  as  well  as  that  I  am  walking  here  "  ^ 

Cynlla  smiled-the   cynical   and    most    worldly  smile    that 
often  marred  the  beauty  of  her  T.tian-like  face.      ^ 

We  will  see!"  she  said,  prophetically.     "Meantime  whit 
a  ronuntjc  old  gentlen.an  your  papa  nn.Jt  be  !    I  tho  gh't      a 

as  io^,  tw'"^' f '"""^  '^'^^^'^  "^  ^'^'^'^  cradles,  went'out  of 
lasliion  two  or  three  centuries  ago." 

"  It  is  simi^le  enough  after  all,"  Sydney  answered.   ''  I  will  tell 

VVhen  papa  was  a  very  young  man,  and  a  middy  in  tiie  Britis^i 

vZl:^  w,  ■'^^    2"'^  ^^,  ■'^°'""   >'°"^'^^"^'l  indiscretion-I   don' 
know  to  this  day  what-but  some  act  that  if  brought  to  the  ears 
of  h,s  captau.   would   have  disgraced  and  ruined  I  im   or  u" 

and   m"^v^"'  /^''"'"'^  ^"^^  ''^'   ^^^^^"^J  officer  of  the   s  lip 
and  Mr.  Vaughan   came  to  papa's  aid,  rescued   him  from  his 
da  ger,  screened  hmi-saved  him,  in  a  word.     Papa  could    o 
nolnng  then  to  prove  his  gratitude,  but  in  his  heart  1  is  gn    t„  e 
was  deep  and  strong.     Years  and  years  after,  when  ,n    a  1  v  d 

enrr\nd   n^^  ^^  p"  ^'^^^  '^°^'"'  '"'^  »^°°'"'  ^^^'^^S  Bertie 
nencl  ess   and   alone.     Pa[)a  came  forward,   soucrjit  ]i?,n   out 

brought  hnn  here,  and  adopted  him  as  his  son  '^  I  was   o  e 

t.ned  us  for  each  other.     He  had  nmrried  mamma  n  New  York 
~n,anmm  IS  American,  you  know-and  hnallv,  when  h  s  heU  h 

uli  him   and  mamma  prefers  it.     Bertie  was  at   Ru  4)v  a?    he 

n  ct  >cars  before  last  vacation,  when  he  came  over,  and   as  I 

old  you  girls,  gave  me  this  ring,  and  informed  me  he       ended 

to  marry  me  next  year      rv" -nnr--  n-^m  h-  '  <    ■     •       ""^V^''r^ 

and  I    .'.,.,    .,.       c^,      our,,  papa  haa  tuid  mm  to  do  it. 

th  i  an^h'lJ  /  "'"''  '"^'■'>''  ^  ^^^^'1^^  rather  marry  IJertie 
man  any  dreadful,  strange  man.  That  is  the  wiiole  story 
«-)rilla,  romantic  or  not,  as  you  like."  ^ 


38 


^'SO    YOUNG,    AND  SO    UNTENDER.'* 


"  H'm  !"  was  Cyiilla's  comnK-nt,  her  black  eyes  twinkling; 
"  what  a  comforl  it  must  be  to  your  papa  to  i)ossess  so  dutiful 
a  son  and  tlaupjliter.  1  am  curious  to  see  this  docile  Mr. 
Vaughan,  and  curious,  7'cry  curious,  Syd,  to  see  how  this  ro- 
mantic marriage  turns  out." 

"  You  are  welcome,"  Miss  Owenson  answered,  stoutly.  "  It 
will  be  a  modern  case  of  Darby  and  Joan,  1  feel  sure.  When  we 
are  married  and  settled — we  are  to  live  at  home  with  pa[)a  and 
mamma,  of  course — you  nuist  come  and  make  me  a  long  visit, 
and  we  will  look  out  together  for  the  ugly,  old,  idiotic,  wealthy 
Bottom  the  Weaver,  you  intend  to  marry." 

Miss  Hendrick  laughed,  then  sighed  impatiently — that  look 
of  dark  discontent  Sydney  had  learned  to  know  long  ago  over- 
spreading her  face  like  a  cloud. 

She  glanced  uj)  at  her,  half  wonderingly,  half-compassion- 
ately. 

"Cyrilla,"  she  said,  holding  the  girl's  arm  a  little  closer, 
"what  a  troulded  face  you  wear ! — what  a  troubled  face  you 
often  wear,  as  though  you  were  almost  sick  of  your  life." 

"Almost!"  Cyrilla  Hendrick  rei)eated — "almost,  Sydney! 
Why,  there  never  was  a  time  when  I  was  not  sick  of  my  life. 
I  have  an  infinite  capacity  for  discontent,  I  think- — for  discon- 
tent, envy,  and  all  uncharitableness.  I  long  for  freedom,  for 
riches,  for  splendor,  for  the  glory  of  the  world,  more  than 
words  can  ever  tell.  And  drudger)',  and  poverty,  and  mean- 
ness have  been  mine  since  1  can  recolli,'Ct.  JUit,  as  you  say, 
Syd,  I  have  a  handsome  face,  anil  the  average  of  brains  behind 
it,  and  it  will  go  hard  with  me,  if  out  in  the  big,  wide  world  I 
cannot  win  for  myself  a  place  in  the  first  rank." 

Sy<lncy  Owenson  gazed  at  her  in  increased  wonder  and  pcr- 
])lc,\ity.  Her  own  life  ran  on  like  some  clear,  shining  river; 
the  turbid,  restless  spirit  of  her  bolder  friend  she  could  by  no 
means  undersiand.  Jn  all  things  her  life  sulficed  for  lier,  and 
had  from  ihe  !  eginning  ;  with  her  niche  in  the  world  she  was 
ami)ly  rontent.  This  craving,  never-satisfied  longing  for  the 
unattainable  was  to  her  a  marvel. 

"We  were  talking  of  love  a  few  minutes  ago,"  she  said,  try- 
ing perplexedlv  to  work  out  the  })U/zle.  "  yXre  you  in  love, 
Cyrilla,  with  Freddy?" 

C\rilla  laughed — the  sweetest,  airiest  laugh  was  Cyrilla's — • 
the  clouds  clearing  away  as  if  by  magic. 

"And  if  {  am,  Sstlney.  you  don't  tivink,  I  liupe,  iJuil  has  any- 
thing to  do  with  it !    Oh,  no  !    If  I  were  queen  of  the  univc/se, 


^^PART  hTQW,    PART   WELL,   PART  WIDE  APART.'^  35 


It 


and  all  the  bes;   am\  brav.  ,t  of  mankind  knelt  before  mc,  I 

ould  smgle  out  liule  Fred  Carevv  and  nurry  hi.n  from  among 

m  on   '/''  i"^""^-"  ^"'u'""'  r  S'-«^f'y  '-^^  it  is  in  me  to  care  foT 

;      .  fn"   .""'"!  '";T:'^'  ""'"'^  '"^"^^  '^''"  '"°st  exquisitely  miser- 

ab  e  for  the  rest  of  his  mortal  life,  1  have  no  doubt.     But  with 

nothinrto'cW' "''''''""  ''"''  '"^'  ^°''  ^''■^^^^'  ^^  1^^^^^^"^'  '^^^ 

"  And  yet  you  are  fond  of  him  ?  " 

"  Fond  of  him  ?  Fond  of  Fred  Carew  ?  Ah  !  well,  Syd  it's 
one  of  those  things  that  won't  bear  talking  about.  We  have 
said  good-by,  and  said  it  for  all  time  " 

"Who  knows?  You  will  one  day  inherit  Miss  Dormer's 
foi-tune,  marry  your  Fred,  and  live  happy  ever  after." 

iNever,  Syd  !  I  opened  the  mysteries  a  little  the  other 
day.  J  et  me  open  them  still  more  now.  I  told  you  Miss  Dor- 
nier  had  agreed  to  leave  her  money  to  me  on  one  condition 
-tlut   I    solemnly  swear   to   obey  her   in   one   thing-did  I 

"  Yes— well  ?  " 

-Well— that  one  thing  is,  that  I  am  never  to  marry  Fred 
Carew.  Before  she  signs  her  will,  if  I  am  not  already  married, 
1  am  to  swear,  in  the  presence  of  witnesses,  that  never,  while 

o.  h\rif      ?'"■[  '• ""  ■  ''"'"  Y'""^^^-     ^^  ^  '■^f"^^  t«  take  that 
oath,  or  If  I  break  it  when  taken,  I  forfoit  every  dollar.       No 

more  (luestions,  Syd,  and  get  rid  of  that  shocked  face.     Here 
we  are  at  Mrs.  Delamere's." 


CHAPTER  V. 

I'ART    NOW,  PART   WELL,  PART    WIDK    APART." 

RS.  COLONEL  DKLAMERE,  afet,  fair,  and  forty  ma- 
tron with  the  usual  comfortable,  placid,  stall  fod  I„ok 
came  forward  in  i)earl-gray  silk  to  receive  heryouthfu' 

ki...vl  „,;!"''.?"■■     ^^"'  ^"^^''""-'y  ^^^"^0"'  'ler  especial  pet,  she 
Kisseu  witii  effusion. 

sh^^J^lw'  ^^'-'j'^S;;'^;''^!  J^ow  good  of  you  to  come  so  early!" 
goocl  l"''"'"  '°  '"^  ^'■''  '"^"^  ^'°'"S  to  lose  you  for 


40    *'PART  NOW,   PART  WELL,   PART  WIDE  APART.'' 


"  WHio  told  you  ?  "  Sydney  demanded,  opening  wide  her  gray 
eyes. 

"  Maileinoiselle  Chateauroy — I  called  yesterday.  Told  ine 
yon  were  to  be  married — a  little  girl  of  seventeen  !  My  pet,  it's 
a  shame  !" 

"Is  it?"  laughed  Sydney  ;  "but  a  little  bird  has  whispered 
through  the  town  that  Mrs,  Colonel  Delamere  ran  away  and 
was  married  at  sixteen  !  " 

"  So  she  did,  my  dear,  and  a  precious  simpleton  she  was  for 
her  pains,"  Mrs.  Delamere  answered,  shrugging  her  ample 
shoulders.  "  Sydney,  why  did  you  fetch  that  shrewish  Miss 
Jones  ?  I  have  a  treat  in  store  for  you,  girls,  but  it's  against 
orders  —  three  contraband  admirers  who  are  dying  to  meet 
my  pretty  pensioimaires.  Miss  Jones  will  be  sure  to  spoil 
all." 

"Poor  Miss  Jones!  she  seems  to  make  enemies  on  every 
hand.  It  is  war  to  the  knife  between  her  and  Cyrilla.  Are 
you  really  going  to  introduce  the  new  arrivals  ?  I  heard  the 
regnuent  had  come.     How  nice  of  you  !" 

"  They  will  drop  in  after  dinner— the  colonel  dines  with  them 
at  the  mess,  and  will  bring  them  over  afterward.  You  are  to 
have  i)arlor  crotpiet,  and  a  carpet  dance,  and  go  home  by 
moonlight.     If  only  that  Miss  Jones  would  not  tell !  " 

"  Mow  plaintively  you  speak  of  that  Miss  Jones,"  Sydney 
laughed.  "  Let  the  .-uost  fascinating  of  your  military  heroes 
make  love  to  her,  Mrs.  Delamere,  give  her  his  arm  home,  and 
so  seal  the  dragon's  mouth." 

Mrs.  Delamere  looked  doubtfully  across  at  Miss  Jones. 

"  Do  you  think  so,  pet  ?  Hut  then  she  is  so  i)lain,  jjoor  thing, 
and  not  so  young  as  she  was  ten  years  ago,  and  though  they're 
all  plucky  fellows  enough,  yet  I'm  pfraid  they're  not  equal  to  it. 
However,  we  will  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry  to-night,  if  we  are 
to  die  for  it  to-Jiiorrow," 

All  things  went  on  in  a  most  exemplary  way  for  the  next  two 
hours,  until  the  six  o'clock  dinner  ended.  Not  a  red  coat,  not 
even  a  black  coat,  made  its  apijcarance.  Games  of  all  kinds, 
books  of  all  sorts,  had  been  provided  by  Mrs.  Delamere,  the 
joUiest  of  hostesses,  for  her  young  friends.  They  dined  together, 
waited  upon  by  a  solemn,  elderly  butler,  and  even  Miss  Jones 
was  aiuused  and  proi)itiated  by  Mrs.  Delamere's  condescending 
kindness. 

*'  1  really  want  the  poor  things  to  cnioy  themselves  this  even- 
ing, my  dear  Miss  Jones,"  she  said,  coiihdentially.    "  You  must 


** PART  NOW,   PART  WELL,   PART  WIDE  APART."    41 

thaTusuaT"  ""  ''"^^  ''''^'''  ''^'"'^^'  """"^  ""^  '^^'*  °"^  ''°"'"  "^°^^ 

Miss  Jones  fixed  her  dull,  glimmering  eyes  upon  the  colonel's 
lady,  scenting  danger  afar  off. 

"My  orders  are  not  to  allow  my  pupils  out  of  my  si-ht, 
mac  ame,'  she  answered,  stiffly  ;  -and  to  bring  the<n  hon(e  posi! 
tivcly  at  nme.  It  ,s  as  much  as  my  position  is  worth  to  disobey." 
.  Oh,  nonsense  !  my  dear  Miss  Jones.  I  will  make  it  all, 
right  with  Mademoiselle  Chateauroy.  Do  recollect  how  little 
amusement  the  poor  things  have,  and  remember  we  were  once 
young  ourselves." 

n,.!f  '''^\?^  T'*  unfortunate  appeal  the  good  lady  could  have 
n  ade.     Miss  Jones  was  verging  upon  the  thirties,  a  period  when 
a^iy  unmarried  lady  may  be  pardoned  for  becoming  sensitive 
Her  leaden  eyes  absolutely  ikished.  ^     cnsuive. 

"  Mrs.  Delamere  is  very  kind,  but  my  orders  were  positive, 
and  It  is  my  duty  to  obey."  * 

She  set  her  thin  lips,  and  looked  across  at  CyriUa  Hendrick. 

1  he  military  are  coming,  and  1  shall  spoil  your  sport,  my 

lady,  if  I  can,"  she  thought,  vindictively.  i       »   "7 

Miss  Hendnck  at  the  moment  was  the  centre  of  a  circle  of 
laughing,_  eager  faces.  They  had  adjourned  to  the  ample 
grounds  in  front  of  the  house,  and  seated  under  a  great  scarlet 

tne  mystic  vail  of  futurity,  °         J  i^ 

tnn? ,'''lr^"''rl''^  ^''""^^y  ^""'^y^"  '^^  ^^^  drawling  in  true  gypsy 
tone  to  Miss  Owenson,  "a  sudden  journey,  and  a  chan^Vin 
your  whole  life  Here  is  a  (air  man,'  who  is  destined  to  c^use 
you  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  Here  are  tears,  a  disappointment, 
a  sick-bed,  and— yes— a  death."  ' 

||Cyril]a  !  "  Sydney  cried,  her  gray  eyes  flashing  indignantly. 
It  is  on  the  cards— look   for  yourself,  and  very  nevar,  too 
Here  is  a  dark  man,  this  king  of  spades,  who  follows  you  every, 
where,  and  a  dark  woman,  who  is  your  enemy,  and  comes 
between  you  and  the  fair  man,  and-—" 

She  stopped   suddenly,  as  suddenly  as  if  she  had  been  shot. 
J  or  a  voice  broke  upon  them  as  she  uttered  the  words 

hJ.T'^'F  '"  ^°'-'''^''  '^''^'''^  '"^'^^'l'"'"  '^''^  t'^«^  pleasant, 
a.y  voice  ;"  say  pomes,  or  monkeys.     My  exchequer  never 

sauls  anything  Jiigher.     My  dear   colonel,  what  a  charming 

i;i''  V;  "  "^■■^^■'^^~^'^'^"  group  from  Wultcau,  and  sitting  on  straw! 
ke  Marjory  Davv  !    These  are  the  young  ladies  Mrs.  Delamere 

fapoke  of,  no  doubt." 


kI 


If      t 


!t 


42    ^<PART  A'OIF,   PART  WELL,   PART  WIDE  APART.*' 

The  speaker  raised  his  eye-glass  complacently,  and  stood  sur- 
veying the  "group  from  VVattcau,"  as  though  it  had  been  got 
up  tor  his  esi)ecial  delectation.  He  had  spoken  in  an  under- 
tone, but  in  the  clear,  crisj),  still  air,  every  word  had  reached 


the  ears  of  the  fortune-teller.     She  did  not  st 


irv,  she  did  not 


look  up,  a  sudden  stillness  came  over  her  from  head  to  foot. 
Then  she  lifted  her  handsome,  high-bred  foce,  and  went  coolly 
on. 

"  'I'he  dark  lady  is  in  love  with  the  fair  gentleman,  and  will 
do  her  best  to  part  him  from  you.  Whether  she  succeeds  of 
not  is  not  on  the  cards,  but  I  see  here  no  end  of  trouble,  disap- 
pointment,  sickness  and  tears." 

^  '-A  very  dreary  i)rediction  for  li[)s  so  gentle  to  pronounce. 
Fairest  fortune-teller,  will  you  not  speer  my  future  as  well  ?  " 

The  gentleman  whose  bets  never  exceeded  "  ponies  or  mon- 
keys "  had  advanced,  bowing  gracefully,  smiling  sweetly  upon 
llu;  llultering  group.  The  seeress  lifted  her  eyes' from  the  i)ack, 
and  glanced  ui)  at  him  with  the  careless  indifference  of  a  prac- 
tised co([uette.  But  Sydney  Owenson  saw,  and  Miss  Jones  saw, 
that  the  faint  rich  carnation  her  olive  cheeks  ever  wore  had 
deepened  to  vivid  crimson. 

"Certainly,"  she  answered,  with  perfect  M«iry;-^/^;  "cross 
the  sibyl's  palm  with  silver,  my  jjretty  gentleman,  and  tell  me 
which  shall  it  be—jiast,  present,  or  future?" 

She  held  out  her  hand,  all  present  looking  on  in  a  flutter  of 
expectation,  a  startled  expression  ui)on  Miss  Jones'  vinegar 
visage,  a  bland  smile  upon  Colonel  Delamere's. 

"  The  future,  by  all  means,"  the  gentleman  answered,  making 
search  gravely  for  the  silver  coin.  He  found  a  sixpence,  and 
droi)ped  it  with  a  second  Chesterfieldian  bow  into  the  extended 
pahii.     She  shuiiled  the  cards.   "  Cut,"  she  said,  authoritatively. 

The  stranger  obeyed,  a  military  stranger  all  saw,  though  in 
mufti.  Miss  Hendrick  took  up  the  lirst  "cut,"  and  began  to 
read. 

^  "This  is  the  knave  of  hearts— you  are  the  knave,  monsieur! 
This  nieans  water— you  have  recently  made  a  long  voyage.' 
'Jliere  is  the  queen  of  siiades— a  dark  lady  whom  you  are'to 
meet  soon,  very  soon.  Let  me  warn  monsieur  against  this 
youDg  dark  lady  ;  she  will  cause  him  endless  trouble  and  mis- 
chiet  if  he  does  not  cut  her  ac(iuaintance  at  once.  Here  is  a 
blonde  lady,  the  queen  of  diamonds,  immensely  wealthy.  Look 
at  all  these  cards  that  follow  her.  She  will  fall  in  love  with  the 
knave  if  lie  sets  about  it  jDropcrly,  and  may  even  ultimately 


^ 


stood  sur- 
been  got 
m  under' 
I  reached 
I  did  not 
:1  to  foot. 
nt  coolly 

,  and  will 
c:ceeds  ol 
le,  disap- 

onounce. 
ivell  ?  " 
1  or  mon- 
itly  ii|)on 
ihe  pack, 
f  a  prac- 
)nes  saw, 
k'ore  had 

/   "  cross 
tell  me 

liitter  of 
vinegar 

,  making 
nee,  and 
extended 
itativcly. 
lont^h  in 
began  to 

onsieur ! 
voyage. 
I  are  to 
iiist  tliis 
and  niis- 
lere  is  a 
y.  Look 
with  the 
timately 


'*PART  NOW,   PART  WELL,  PART  WIDE  APART:^    43 
marry  him.     She  will  not  be  young  and   certainly  not  orettv. 

nn  ;h1/r/'  'r''  t"  t '"'  '"  ^"'?"^^'  ^'^''^'  '^  ^y^^k  and  that  i 
much  bet  or  (or  (he  knave  ot  hearts,  and  much  more  to  his  taste 

an  youth  or  pr.:tty  looks.     The  dark  lady  is  poor,  and  really 

u    1  make  monsieur  no  end  of  worry  whenever   siie  appears^ 

1 1  IS  card  cerramly  means  a  wedding.     Here  it  all  is-n.onsieur 

turns    his  Mck  upon   the  evil-minded  dark   lady,   marries  the 

queen  of  diamonds  and  her  money-bags,  and  lives  happy  ever 

fn,^''^l  TTl  ^?  ''"'  ^^^^'  ^°^^^^  ^°^^  t«  the  gentleman,  and 
turned  as  if  to  dei)art. 

nn!7^''l  u\  ^'""-l  "  ''''°?"^  "\'*  *''^  •''-  '^''^^^  '^^"8^^  of  ^l^e  col- 
V  nil  ^^y  hfr'  ,'"^  T '  «"^^>-^''^'  Carew  ?  If  she  had  known 
you  all  you  re  life,  by  Jove,  she  couldn't  have  hit  home  better 
—liey,  my  boy  ?  l^t  me  introduce  you— Miss  Cyrilla  Hen- 
drick,  Mr.  Carew  of  the— th  Fusiliers.''  ^  ncn 

''Carew!"  The  gray  eyes  of  Sydney  Owenson  opened 
in  swift,  sudden  surprise.  She  glanced  at  Cyrilla,  strangely 
startled,  but  that  young  lady  was  bowing  as  to  oni  she  had 
never  seen  before— the  gentleman  with  equal  gravity. 

Sydney   drew   a   long    breath.      After    all    Carew  was    not 

men^.n  the  world  who  bore  it.      If  she  could  only  hear  his 

"Freddy,    my   boy,"    cried    the    colonel's   cheerful    stentor 

Carew.-'      '''  ''  '''''''^'''     ^''''  ^^^"'^  Owenson,  Lieutenant 

.t  f''''f -^  'a  f""  ^''''''/''  ""  S'ance  of  amaze  and  delight  across 
at  her  friend,  but  the  face  of  Cyrilla  Hendrick  was  bevond  her 

[n:  i  f  !?'n.     ''ir'r    ?-T}  ^'^'^^y  ^^^''^y'  ^'^^oniy  the  usual,  half- 
face  ^^^lf-^l'^J^^"^f^il  expression  on  the  handsome  bninette 

"  Mr.  Carew,  Miss  Jones,"  says  genial  Colonel  Delamere, 
and  Miss  Jones  makes  a  prim,  slilhsh,  little  bow.  "  Made- 
inoiselle  Mane  Antoinette  Desereux,  Madamoiselle  Angele 
Ljarneau.  '^ 

'Fwice  more  does  Mr.  Carew  bestow  his  graceful  court-cham- 
then  hHs  free'    ""      °"  ^''''  ^"^^'^'^-^"^'-^""er  school-girls,  and 

''Two  more  coming.  Rosebud,"  whispers  the  elderly  coIoppI 
ami"  r  ';^-Vu 'V''''  '"^'V^^ood  men  and  true.  Fred  Career 
and  I  toddled  on  ahead.  How  does  Carew  compare  witi  /e 
ieau  Bertie— eh,  little  pearl  ?  "  oa'P-^rt-  wit.x  le 


'J 

i 

i 

I 


44    ''PART  NOW,   PART  WELL,    PART   WIDE  APART.'' 

"  Mr.  Carew  is  very  good-looking  indeed,  sir  ;  not  very  tall, 
but  that's  a  matter  of  taste,"  answers,  demurely,  Miss  Owen- 
son. 

"And  a  bit  of  a  dandy — eh,  my  dear  ?  Rc^anh-zvous,  ag 
they  say  here,  the  lavender  kids,  the  shiny  boots,  the  swell 
hat,  the  moss-rose  in  the  button-hole.  That  coat  is  one  of 
Poole's  masterpieces;  but  I  suppose  you  are  not  capable  of 
appreciating  Poole's  che/tf ceuvres.  But,  with  all  his  Dun- 
drearyism,  I^.e's  one  of  the  best  and  most  honorable  little  fellows 
that  ever  breathed,  is  my  young  friend,  Fred  Carew." 

'*  Indeed,  sir." 

"Yes,  that  he  is.  Pve  known  him  since  he  was  the  size  of 
this  cigar.  May  1  light  it?  Thank  you,  my  dear.  Miss  Hen- 
dnck  hit  hun  off  to  the  life— ha  !  ha  I  'Rich  wife— not  pretty 
—not  young— lots  of  money  '—ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Clever  girl,  very, 
that  handsome,  black-eyed  Miss  Hendrick.  Coukln't  have 
struck  home  more  neatly  if  she  had  been  his  mother.  Hasn't 
a  stiver  but  his  pay— Carew  hasn't— best  connections  going, 
but  no  expectations.  Terrible  flirt,  but  no  marrying  man. 
However,  that's  nothing  to  you,  my  dear.  You're  booked. 
Lucky  fellow,  that  young  Vau-^han.  I've  heard  of  him.  Ah  I 
you  needn't  blush — if  I  were  only  twenty  years  younger  and  a 
smgle  man.  Well!  you  may  laugh  if  you  like,  but  Vaugiiaa 
wouldn't  have  it  all  his  own  way.  Ve  ,  as  1  say— as  Miss  h^in- 
drick  said  rather — a  wife  with  fifty  thousand  down  is  about 
Fredtly's  figure.  The  widow,  or  the  orphan,  my  dear,  doesn't 
matter  which,  and  the  money  not  selfishly  tied  up  on  herself 
either." 

Thus  guilelessly  prattled  on  the  colonel,  while  Sydney  laughed 
and  watched  her  friend  with  intense  curiosity.  At  least  Colonel 
Delamere  did  not  dream  that  Mr.  Carew  and  Miss  Hendrick 
had  ever  met  before— no  one  did  except  herself.  Yes— one 
other  !  Miss  Jones'  leaden  eyes  might  be  dull,  but  tiiey  were 
sharp,  and  where  Cyrilla  Hendrick  was  concerned  hatred  had 
sharpened  them  to  needle-i)oints.  She  had  noticed  the  first 
start,  the  first  flush  of  tell-tale  color  ;  she  had  seen  for  one 
moment  an  expression  on  her  foe's  ixce  she  had  mever  seen 
there  beforl-.  The  fortune-telling,  too,  had  been  peculiar.  Did 
she  mean  herself  by  the  "  dark  lady,"  Miss  Jones  wondered  ? 
Had  they  ever  met  before  ?  Had  they  met  before— in  England, 
for  exam|)le — and  was  there  some  reason  for  keejiino-  that°iieet- 
ing  secret  ?     She  would  watch,  and  wait,  and  see. 

Mr.  Carew  had  joined  Miss  Hendrick,  and  walked  away  by 


*^PART  NOW,   PART  WELL,    PART  WIDE  APART."   45 

her  side.     For  a  moment  neither  spoke— the  young  lady  look- 
ing serenely  before  her  straight  into  space,  the  young  LnUe- 

^^r^  ^  ^"'^'      ''■  '"'''  '''  ''"'''"'  ""'''•     '^^'  ''^'  '^'^  *'•'"  to 

"\Vei|,  Beauty?" 

"VVeil    Freddy?"     Cyrilla   Hendrick's  black  eyes   turned 
from  the  hon/on  to  his  face  at  \ ....     -  It  is  you,  Fred  Car  4 
then,   after  all.     How  in   the  name  of  all  thT  s  almS 
do  you  come  to  be  here  ?  "  'iisiiinj, 

"What!"  Mr  Carew  said,  lifting  his  blonde  eyebrows,  "do 
you  mean  to  tell  me,  Heauty,  you  did  not  know  1  was  here?  " 

i  now  you  were  here  !     (iood  Heaven  !   Fred,  what  a  pre- 
posterous question.      Freddy  Carew  away  from   Regent  Street 
aiKl  l^otten  Row  !     Fred  Carew  out  of  sight  of  VVhite's  Club 
f^s^to^' "'^""^^  ^^""^  •^^^''^^•'     ^«-^'-'  human   mind     e 
meet  th.    C  T  '^  'p'"  ^'-"^T  '     ^  ^^'"^•'^'  ^'  ^"^"^  -P^^-^  to 

-Ah!"  Freddy  sighs,  plaintively.     "You  can't  feel  sorrier 

mv  T\      M  ?''. '''"  ^  ^''^  ^^^  '">^^''^-    ^^'^'t  the  fortune  of  vTr 
n     dear  ch.lc,  however  cruel,  must  be  accepted  by  a  soldier 
St  1.  smce  ,t  has  brought  me  to  you,  I  can't  iay  1  regret  it." 
^^  You  knew  1  was  here?-from  papa,  1  suppose." 

A.Jr''T^'^  'f  riT"^''^^'  the  shining  hours  in  Boulogne,  my 
dea  Cyrilla,  and  has  been  for  the  past  year.  No ;  I  knew  you 
were  m  Canada  somewhere,  and  that  knowledge  alone  made 
the  thouglu  of  my  exile  endurable.  1  had  no  idea  we  were  to 
meet,  until  this  very  day,  at  mess." 

"And  then " 

"And  then  our  garrulous  friend,  the  colonel-' our  old  lady,' 

Peti^  rVnf  '^""T'^\?>^  the  blissful  secret.  '  Cai.ital  plac"^, 
Pait  St.  Jacques,  l^reddy,  my,  boy,'  says  Delam.re  to  me 
Yes,  mon  colonel,'  I  answer.  '  Capital  place  for  a  man  to  .^o 
melancholy  mad  or  cut  his  throat,  1  shouK'  .ay.'  '  Not  a  afl ' 
retorts  my  superior  orticer  ;  'lots  of  fun -famous  for  nuu  le 
sugar  and  pretty  girls.  There's  a  whole  seraglio  of  beau  ies 
down  there  m  the  Rue  St.  Dominique,  and  you're  to  meet  two 

h  ir  dS   '     n  T  '^°r  '^'''  <-'venmg-.a/.ure-eved,  golden- 
haircd  Sydney— black-eyed,  raven  tressed  Cvrilla.    'I'ak  ^cither 
my  boy,  with    my  blessing-' you    pays  your  mon...  and    vou 
..IL-.  your  cnoice.     xxeed  1  teii  you,  Jieauty,  1  woke  up  at  that 
-at  the  sound  of  your  name  ?     '  Both  beauties,  bodi  heiresses 
'»y  boy,  pursued  the  doddering  old  colonel ;  '  and  an  heiress 


'} 


46    "PA^r  NOiy,    PART  WELL,   PART  WIDE  APARIV 

is  just    about  what    you    want  most,  I    shoul,l  say,    Krcddv' 

'Precisely,  sir,'  I  answer;  '  to  which  do  you   a.lvise   nie  to  lay 

SK-;,re_|)elle    blonde   or  brunette  ?  '      'Well,  my  little   Svdne/ 

Miss    Owenson,    is    bespoken,    I'm    sorry  to  sav,'    Delaniere 

answers,  « so  it  must  bo  Miss  Hendrick.     Eyes  Tike  sloes,  lips 

Ike  cherries,  cheeks  like  roses,  and  the  air  of  a  duchess.      Yes 

by  Jove ! '  cries  the  vagabond  old  colonel,  smackinir  his  li„s' 

tile  air  of  an  empress.     Bcnedidte,  my  son,  and  Vu)   in  and 

win.      So   I  came,  r.eauty-I  needn't  tell  you  how  I  felt,  and 

you  met  me  as  thoiij^rh  you  had  never  seen  me  before.     I  made 

sure  you  knew  all  about  my  being  here,  and  were  on  L-iard  " 

"Not  I,"  Cyrilla  answered;  "when  your  voice  re;' Jied  me 
as  1  sat  there  telling  tortunes,  1  was  struck  dumb.  lUit  oh  de  ir 
old  fellow!  //.w  glad  I  am  to  see  you-how  good  it  seems  to 
meet  a  lamiliar  Jace  in  this  desert  of  Canada." 
"Miss  Hendrick  !"  peals  forth  a  sharp-accented  voice;  and 
Miss  Hendrick  wakes  up  almost  as  iVom  a  dream  at  the  too 
familiar  sound.  "  Miss  Hendrick,  you  are  wanted  in  the  (haw- 
ing-rooin,  to  smg." 

Mr  Carew's  glass  goes  to  his  eye  ;  Miss  Hendrick  turns  half 
round  upon  her  toe,  with  her  usual  air  of  serene  impertinence. 

Jones  ?      (M  iss  Jones  has  about  as  much  voice  as  a  consumptive 
raven.)     "  \ou  see  1  am  well  ainuseil  as  it  is." 

"  I  must  insist  upon  your  returning  to  the  house,  instantlv  " 
cries  A  iss  Jones,  ma  rising  key.  "  My  orders  are,  as  you  know, 
not  to  let  you  out  of  my  sight."  ' 

She  advances  upon  tliem.  Mr.  Carew,  his  glass  still  in  his 
eye,  regards  her  as  he  might  some  newly-discovered  and  wondei- 
ful  specimen  of  the  iJntish  megatherium. 

"JUit,  my  dear  Miss  Jones,"  he  begins,  in  most  persuasive 
accents  with  his  most  winning  smile,  "there  is  really  no  need 
of  all  this  trouble.  Your  natural  and  affectionate  an.xiety  about 
Miss  Hendrick  does  eciual  honor  to  your  head  and  heart,  but  I 
assure  you,  no  harm  siuili  come  to  her  while  she  is  in  my  care 
1  am  ready  to  shield  her,  if  necessary,  with  my  life." 

"Mademoiselle  Chateauroy's  orders  were  not  to  let  anv  of 
my  pupils  out  of  my  sight  ;  more  particularly  Miss  Cyrilla 
Heiuhick— ;//^i-/  particularly  with  gendemen.  I  shall  obe^ 
mademoiselle's  orders"  is  Miss  Jones's  grim  and  crushing  repl/. 

Its  of  no  use,   l<reddy,"    Cyrilla   says,   in  an   undcMto  le 
"we  must  go  back  and  i-urt.      1  don't  care  lor  her,"  mot.onin^ 
contemptuously  toward  Miss   Jones,    "  nor  for    Arademoiselle 


"PART  NOW,    PART  WELL,    PART  WIDE  APIR7\"   47 

Cliatcuiiroy  ciihcr  ;  I„,t  I  ,lo  care  for  Aunt  Phil.     'I  o  ..(fond  her 
means  n.n.  to  .nc  ;  uiul  ,h.  .Icacllicst  ottencc  J  can  Vi  o     c    i 
to  have  anyihu.,  to  say  to  you.     Lot  us  «<,  Lack,  an^    or    i  y's 
Mke  don     speak  to  n,e  a.^tin  until  yon  s.Ty  good. ni^h  .'•     '    ^ 
lint,    iJcauly,    tins   is  absurd,"  says   Fred   as    thev   tnm   f« 

to  sa>  to  >ou   and  I  mean  to  say  then,  in  spite  of  all  the  (i,.r 

"  I  will  not  meet  you  at  all,  Freddy.      I  tell  you  it  is  imnos- 
lle.     1   am  watched  .nore  closely  than  any  other  gi  1   T 

^s    one's  bsmr ''''"'  ''""'^^  "'""«''  «"->'-^  I^-- 
M  ssjonc.s  las,  sk  eyes  are  upon  me  this   moment,  and   Miss 

tthMl  '"''V*,"'"'"  -'^''y --^^1  ^^nd  look  to   he    owes 

u    "^'-;y)"'",'-*"t  she  returns  to  the  />c'uswu;,a^.  ^ 

"  Mang  i\fiss  Jones  I  " 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  says  Cyrilla,  laughing  ;  "  nothln^^  wo.dd 
give  me  greater  pleasure.     At  the  sam  "  tinie  I  can't  •ufor 
have  mynusdeeds  reported   to  Aunt   Phil  ;  and  so   si      J    us 
shake  hands  and  i)art."  '       '    ^  "'^ 

"  Never,  Cyrilla   you  wits/  meet  me,  and  at  once       Annofiu 
some  place   anc    tune,  here   in   the  town,  and  I  wiU   be  '        e 
whether  it  be  midnight  or  midday."  ^' 

^^Jl^impossible.      I  Vm  never  pennitted  to  stir  outside  the  gates 

''Then,  by  Jove  !  we  shall  meet  inside  the  cates  I  uill 
scale  the  wa I    this  very  night,  and  you  steal  down^    d  n ,,  jt      e 

die  grounds.  CynlL.  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  say  no  a  ^ 
see  you  are  going  to  I  It  is  three  years  since  we  .net  H  ve 
you  forg(jtlen  all  that "  '""^^ 

takes  and  squee.es  Miss  Hendriik's  haiur-'^afeyour 'winCl 
high  ?     Do  you  run  any  risk  in  coming  down  ?  " 

Mv  Lz  Von  z":^i.:;^,i:"^;Lr?^  '-^  -^^  ^^  "-t  kind, 
-ndow,  horn  wh^rbrinli;^^  h;;:;^;^:.:;,^  ni^^i^i:^: 

the  playground.     Get  over  the  wall  about  eleven lo-nlglil,  ami! 


48   **PART  NOW,   PART  WELL,    PART  WIDE  APART." 
if  it  be  i)ossil)lc  at  all,  I  will  meet 


yon.       15iit  minfl— onlv  tl 


cnciN  I-ic(l.lv  ;   not  even  you  will  tempt  me  to  do  it  a-'ai 
cm    will    write    to  me,    though,    llcauty,   and    all 


IIS 


n.  ' 
o\v  me 


to- 

"  No  letter  comes  into  or  goes  ont  of  the  pcnsionnat  that 
does  no  pass  nnder  Mademoiselle  Chateauroy's  scrutiny.  No 
I;rcd  ;  there  can  be  no  writing  and  no  meetirg  except  this  one! 
l-ate  IS  against  us,  as  U  has  been  from  the  fust.  We  were  not 
one  iota  farther  apart  when  the  Atlantic  rolled  between  us  than 
we  will  be  here  together  in  Canada." 

"That  remains  to  be  seen,"  Fred  Carew  answered.  "  Mv 
own  opinion  .s  tluit  fate  has  not  brought  us  face  to  face  in  thi^ 
queer   ok    world  forgotten  town  for  nothing.      We  shall  meet 

;^^he  :-:;  7^::f^:--^  ^^^  -  --^^  ^--  Heaven! 
They  had  reached  the  house.  Cyrilla  went  in  at  o,  ce.  while 
Mr  Ca  ew  lingered  and  allowed  Miss  Jones  to  join  hii  i.  The 
yellow  half  moon  was  lifting  her  face  over  the  tree-tops,  the  air 
was  spicy  with  aromatic  odors  from  tlie  pine  woods.  Thiou.rh 
the  open  wuulows  came  the  gay  strains  of  "  J.a  Claire  Fontaine^" 

o\venson."      ""''  °'         '"■    *^'^"'''^''   ^^'"'"^'^^    '^^  ^^'^«    S>'^''^^'y 
"Why  should  we  go  in  just  yet,    Miss  Jones?"  says   Mr 

carew,  m  his  slow,  sleepy  voice,  with  his  slow,  sleepy  smile. 
It  is  a  lovely  night,  a  little  coldish.,  but  I  perceive  you  have  a 

shaul  across  yot.r  arm  ;  allow  me  to  pt.t  it'  on-you  may  t"ke 

cok  — and  permit  me  to  otter  you  my  arm  for  a  walk  " 

He  removes  the  shawl  as  he  speaks,  and  adjusts  it  as  tenderly 

;    had     >' ?1^^  "m"'  ;'"r  }""''''''  ^'^^^^'l^^'-^'^otilders  as  though 
1  a    been  Miss  Hendnck  herself  j  then,  still  smiling,  he  offers 

li^l      iiiri    ell  Ilia 

The  temptation  is  great.     Miss  Jones  is  nine-and-twenty,  and 
not  even  at  nineteen  was  her  head  ever  turned  by  the  Hatterin- 

h    !   .   ,     "  r'"''   '''"'   '"-^"'^    somewhat  curdled  in  her  vestal 
human.   ^"^    ^"^'  "''"'■'"'  °^   '"^-^f'-^^ctory  pupils,   is  human,  very 

"  Do  come  !  "  says  Mr.  Carew,  sweetly.  '<  It  is  really  a  sin 
to  spend  such  a  night  in-doors.  The  younc  ladies  ?  dh  t  e 
young   odies  are  perfectly  safe.     There  is  no  one  there  bu     he 

CO  "  b'^r  "'"•  ''''^""■'■"  ''''' ''''''  ^^•'-^  -'^»  ^'-^y  --' 1^ 

fvl       '    ;;•     .'^^  '^''^■■"''  ^'  ^^  >^^'  "-^^y  P^Tt^eive.     All  the  better 
lor  me,  Miss  Jones,"  smiles  Mr.  Carew,  drawing  her  hand  within 


very 


^^PA,T  NOW,    PART  ^VELL^   PART  mDE  APART,  40 

his^an,,..  since  it  allows  ,„e  the  pleasure  of  a  me-.-me  stroll 

ti.ne  could  ^^^r^^.n^:^::^'f'''r^  '"  -''^  ''^^'1  co.ne, 

Slu.  cou.l.ed  a  li  tie  rmr     o    a    '        ^"'"'^  "^'^   ''''"•  ^'^^^^•^'' 
lior  sulnle  le,„,,tcr.  "  '""''  ^'"'  '"-•^uulercd  away  with 

.Carew  getting  u,,  a  flirtation  h,;  LooI^./V^'k,  "''^-  ''^'•; 
ynurs  ui  the  [,ud.  and  now  she  le  u     h   ,,      -  "  ^^,'''-'  "'''''^''^ 

"  "'^^v,  haw,   haw  !     Yes    1,7  t'     f  ^'^'"'^f  '>'-''-«''in  " 

'n:arewhastrotte(lotrAfiss,  Ls  tL  Tr'"'  '''"  "°'""^''' ' 
auchnakes  oir  with  the  see,),''  ,.''VrV'^  •'^l>^'--''^  t''-"  lau.hs, 
OM  four  of  i|,e   prettiest    Xl';"/-       T''  ^^'"'""^  turns  his  back 

morrow  !  "  ^  ""^l"^^^'  J'^'^'-'  f^''  H'e  uiess-tabje  to- 

ey::^kra;ui:;^S:;;:^i:.:;^^?^^  "^'i-^  = '-'-  ^'-^ 

as  well  as  that  siie  st  uuls    Ik  re    hn  l'    •''^',  ^'^''^''     ^'^^'  "^"^^^^'^ 
'"^I'tyrixing  hin.self  t      1..^ w^^^^         \  ''  ^'""^'<  "  ^''^  l'^''"  sake, 
she  loves  Ihis  ele'an     's^^  '     ok'.     1'''^^''''  ''"^  '"  '^^'^  '^^'^^ 
tli.U  the  bare  si^lu  of  hi m    H         '  ^,"^'>'  '^'  l'^^^^i'>"^Uely  well, 
J'H.os  is  luueful  t,  her  """"°  ""^'^  ^'^^'"  l'^^'"'  P'^^i"   Miss 

li^'ve  not  returne.l  ""'   l'^^''^"^'  a''  J   the  truants 

^vito.     -  Jiegad!  if  thev're.  nn    h  ^''^bohcal  g.un,  to  his 

sider  it  n.y  duty  to  '0^'  ""'  ^'^'^^  '""  """"^^'•^'  ^  ^'^^^^  ^"»- 

They  enter  as  he\  _x^     ^"lem." 

less,  but  //../  lookin      ..ore  bo  edTlvIT  '  complacent,  list- 

"■'th  a  flush,  either  or  i  e  ut^e  or  n  W     :;^^'^'"7^y  "^iss  Jones 
on  euher  pippi,,  cheek.  ^^  ""''  '''"  «''^^^"^^'  ^''^-^tily 

and  .ally  I  had  no  idea  an  iLu^iud  pL^ed  ^'""'^  ^'  '"^^^^^^' 
Dehun;!v:/';':.;:^'.f  "«'f :  -y  ^'--  Miss  Jon^s,"  answ.vd  H.^ 
in,e  ha^  i;.i;,;r;:   ,;^,.  ■ :  '''''   ^".'ytoo   grateful  to  Alr.'carevv 

-onp  (>n,'su!d;;:;t^Sj:;;:'str^^^''^-  ^^-^^^-n^- 


5°    "PART  NOIV,   PART  WELL,   PART  WIDE  APART" 

But  it  is  i^ast  nine,  and  Aliss  Jones,  conscious  of  having 
swerved  from  the  stern  path  of  rectitude,  is  resolute.  So  the 
girls  flutter  u[)-stairs  after  wraps,  still  giggling  in  chorus  over 
Miss  Jones's  unexpected  ilirtation.  Miss  liendrick  does  not 
giggle,  she  smiles  scornfully,  and  transfixes  her  teacher  with 
her  derisive  black  eyes — a  glance  JNLiss  Jones,  for  once,  does 
not  care  to  meet. 

"  JJegad,  Freddy,"  says  the  colonel,  when  the  ladies  have 
left  the  room,  "  1  expected  it  would  be  a  case  of  love  at  first 
sight  with  you  this  evening,  but  I  didn't — no,  by  gad,  I  didn't 
think  it  would  have  been  with  the  old  maid." 

"  Miss  Jones  is  a  most  intelligent  ami  well-informed  young 
lady,"  answers  Mr.  Carew,  imperturbably,  and  with  half-closed 
eyes.     "  I  am  going  to  see  her  home." 

They  flutter  back  as  he  says  it,  and  he  and  the  colonel  rise. 
Cood-nights  are  spoken  while  Mr.  Carew  draws  on  his  overcoat 
and  gloves,  looking  very  elegant  and  amiable,  and  a  little 
vibrating  tiirill  of  expectation  g(.)es  through  the  grouj)  of  girls. 
To  whom  will  he  offer  his  arm?  He  walks  uj)  to  Miss  Jones 
as  they  think  it,  with  the  air  of  its  being  an  understood  thing, 
and  once  again  draws  her  hand  within  iiis  coat  sleeve. 

'■'■En  avaiit^  inon  colonel,'^  he  says  ;  ''  we  will  follow." 

The  colonel  gives  one  arm  to  his  favorite,  Sydr.ey,  the  other 
to  Cyiilla,  and  leads  the  \v;iy.  'I'he  two  I'rench  girls  conie 
after.  Mr.  Carew  and  Miss  Jones  bring  up  the  rear,  sauntering 
slowly  in  the  i)iercing  white  moonlight.  All  the  way,  along  the 
deathly  sihnt  streets,  the  coloiiel  cracks  his  ponderous  iuul 
rather  stupid  jokes.  Sydney  laughs  good-naturedly,  but  C\'rilla 
Hendrick's  darkly-handsome  face  looks  sombre  and  silent. 
They  reach  the  gates — JSabette,  the  portress,  is  there  awaiting 
them.  Universal  hand-shaking  and  ;ulieus  follow.  For  one 
second  Cyrilla's  cold  fmgers  lie  in  Fred  Carew's  close  clasp,  for 
one  second  the  blue  eyes  meet  the  black  ones  meaningly. 

"  At  eleven,"  he  whispers  ;  "  don't  fail." 

Then  the  great  gates  clang u[)on  tliem,  and  IJabette,  yawning 
loudly,  goes  in  before  into  the  gray,  gloomy  pensionnat. 


XK. 


thing, 


miV  MISS  DORMER  HATED  FRED   CAREW. 


51 


CHAPTER   VJ. 

WHY   MISS    DORAIER    HATED    FRED    CAREW. 

I-L    is  still    when  thev  piiff>r  •    th.    ^ 
ffcly  in   their   roo^'^/a,,' i,,"',:,/"""''''""-"   =1^ 

di.„isi.d  with  v;;;;%:  ,;;''i,;™  ,f-j,- .  ">-  ti.=y  are 

room.  vaieuictory,  ab  she  mounts  up  to  her  own 

.1.2;°:^' ;;,»;;'Vr^e[;;  S'i^r°c^r=°"/''=''  «'^^'^^  ""-■■ 

mail  passion  for  Miss  In,       ■  "'  ''^  y°"  <=••»   l«--l|'-     His 

rallKr  a  forced  smile,   'Mve  vm  M  aM  h,- ^^'        ''f'"''  "'"' 
drea;n«i,,fMr.  Care',  or  an  T!t  of  l!]         'd';."  "   "^^  --' 

"'inutcs  up^Mii  Jot:^;;;,;;:  E*  '--■-•">«•     ^o,  .he  uvon,y 
1..  her  enejn,  pass  wirholn'cnl'anluhrlLr'''^  '^  ^"^  ^"^- 

beimiS,^;;^  n;ri'S;'teir'""^'  7'"'  '^ '  ™"''"-  •" 

h«pe  >0  a„ai„  U..e  el  va  7 1  .io  "of"?  ',T-"">''  ^'^^^^  "«y 
secoml-rate  Canadian  schoo  °  „     '"'■■""■?"-•  l<-'acher  in  a 

mihlary  men,  six  or  s.-^  ^^  '         ^ ^  V''"="  ■''=^l'"e  to  entertain 

s.r,a,i4  on  tl.e'rar."of^,X,!;--;rs,!'r.''  '^  ""  "°"^^  ''■^=- 
"nh«  here s'  'At'.h'  '""'>""l"-'>  '^'"i!".  and  begins  to 
M-  Jones   :,:;';het°i:"c"""''  ""'  ""■  '""'■  -'--  b'-'Lind 

floods'  d,rroS;  ';f 'c;;'[,i' ts'es't'-  '•'"\-  '•^■"""  ■""""*"- 
T-nrn-l  1-  ..        '    /'"  ,'^>""a  raises   the  windoiv-  wr^M- •<   .u,-i 


52 


IV//V  MISS  DORMER  HATED  FRED   CAREW. 


ijti 


thought.  She  loves  tliis  man  ;  she  has  loved  him  since  she  was 
ten  years  old — of  all  the  bliss  life  holds  it  holds  none  greater 
than  his  i>iesence  for  her.  The  mystery  and  tlanger  of  the  ad- 
viMiture,  too,  have  their  charm.  Life  has  gone  on,  for  the  i)ast 
tliree  years,  so  Hat,  stale,  and  un|)rolitable  that  to-niglit's  cxcite- 
nunit  and  wrong-doing,  if  jou  will,  possess  an  irresistible  fas- 
cination. If  it  is  ever  discovered,  if  it  ever  reaches  Miss 
Dormer's  ears,  all  is  up  with  her  forever — her  last  hope  of 
Miss  Dormer's  fortune  is  gone.  And  she  longs  for  and  covets 
Miss  Dormer's  fortune,  tliis  schoolgirl  of  nineteen,  as  the  blind 
desire  sight.  Miss  Dormer  hates  Fred  Carew,  and  all  of  his 
n;vne,  with  a  hatred  as  intense  as — even  Cyrilla  must  own — in  a 
reirihutive  light  it  is  just.  The  story  is  this — told  with  what 
passionate  intensity  and  vivid  fierceness  by  Miss  Dormer  her- 
self, the  girl  remembers  well. 

Forty  years  before,  the  father  of  Phillis  Dormer  had  died, 
leaving  a  fortune,  a  widow,  and  a  daughter  of  eight.  Two  years 
passed,  and  the  widow  was  a  widow  no  longer— she  had  taken 
for  her  second  husband  good-looking,  good  for-nothing  'I'om 
Hendrick.  Of  that  marriage  came  Jack,  the  father  of  Cyrilla. 
If  Afr.  Tom  Hendrick  had  expected  to  possess  the  late  Mr. 
Dormer's  fortune,  as  well  as  his  widow,  he  was  doomed  to  be 
disappointed — the  sixty  thousand  pounds  were  tightly  tied  up 
on  I'hillis.  And  Phillis,  even  as  a  child,  was  not'"  easily  to  be 
wionged. 

She  endured  the  reckless,  riotous  life  of  her  step-father's 
house,  the  daily  insolence  of  her  bold,  handsome,  half-brother 
Jack,  for  a  dozen  years  or  more  ;  then  her  mother  died,  and  Miss 
J'hillis  Dormer  separated  herself  entirely  from  her  disreinitable 
relations,  and  engaging  a  dame  de  co/iipiii^nie,  set  up  for  herself 
as  an  heiress.  The  wife  of  die  member  for  her  native  county 
brought  her  out,  one  or  two  fine  ladies  took  her  up,  she  was 
presented  at  court,  ran  the  round  of  the  season,  and  finished 
by  finding  herself  engaged  to  Frederic  Dunraith  Carew,  nephew 
of  the  Earl  of  Dunraith. 

She  was  three  aiul  twenty  years  old,  slightly  lame,  and  most 
l)atlietically  ugly.  ^  Fred  Carew  of  the  Blues  was  handsome  of 
face,  graceful  of  figure,  elegant  of  dress  and  manner,  all  that 
his  son  was  to  day,  and  more.  He  was  poor — a  beggar  abso- 
lutely, over  head  and  ears  in  debt— a  rich  wife  his  one  earthly 
ho|)eof salvation  from  Queen's  IJench  h)r  fife.  The  ugly,  the 
rich  Miss  Dormer  tell  in  love  with  him.  Mr.  Carew  was  told  so, 
pulled  his  longbUiude  whiskers  i)eri)lexe(llv.  thought  the  matter 


I 


n 


* 


h 


WHY  M/SS  DO  AW/;  A'  HATED  FRED   CAREW.  53 

over,  "njore  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,"  faced  the   worst  like  a 
man,  and  went  and  proposed  to  Miss  D.mncr 

She  was  nitense!)-,  infatnatcdly,  insanely  ahnost,  in  love  with 
hiMK  ,,ke  n.any  very  plain  peoj^le,  she  had  a  n.o  bid  adorad 
of  beamy  n.  otners  Mr.  Carew  had  foscinated  her  at  X^l 
he  eontnn.ed  so  to  fascnvate  her  to  the  end.  If  anythin-.  c  uld 
have  n.ade  plain  Ph.lhs  Dornier  lovely  it  would  sure  y  have  I  ce 
he  perfect,  the  n.tense  joy,  that  fdled  her  whcM.  Fre  leHc 
Ca  ew  asked  her  to  be  his  wife.  Ilers  was  the  perfect  ove 
that  casteth  out  fear.  She  accepted  him,  she  trusted  hi  n  n 
one  word,  she  bowed  down  and  idolized  him.  " 

1  he  noble  relatives  of  Mr.  Carew  were  delidited  and  made 
.nc.tfr,endy  advances  toward  the  bride-elect  t.Zl  1^ 
true  the  sixty  thousand  pounds  had  been  made  in  coal    but  the 

been  tall  of  '"^  '""  "t  ^^"'^?  ^'''''  '"  ^'^  least.  There  hd 
been  talk  of  some  i)enmless  oirl  down  in  Ik-rkshire,  with    two 

b  Inh'T"'  '"n  '  l""k  ^"d-pearl  flvce  alone  to  reconn  ,e       l,e 

an      reahzed  that  love  is  all  very  well  in  theory-a  pretty  .ir 
yell  enough    to    waltz  with,  but  when  a  wife  is  in  the  questK m 
the  thmg  to  be  looked  at  is  her   bank   account.      !■  -ede  ic  ru 
oneh.s  duty;   his   noble   relatives  were  ,,uite  prepared  to  do 

amiT;  "i;V^^-^^^''^  ^'-'   co^'l   merchant's  hiiress 'as 'on^  of  te 
family.      I  he  season  ended,  they  mvited  her  down  to  their  coun- 

S   ■■..';  ^^T'"''       '  ^^'^^^'l-'^'^l^^'itor  dutifully  playing  cavalier 
sen u .....    .' ,  a  by  no  means  exacting  mistress.     .She  gave  so  much 

and  was  satisfied  to  receive  so  little,  that  it  was  revallv    n    e tic 
o  watch  them.   Frederic  was  perpetually  running  up'o  to  vn  a  S 
ta^-ing  away  days  at  a  time,  even  when  the  weddiilgday  v ^  not 
two  weeks  off.     I]nt  Miss  Dormer  asked  no  questions  live  ]  in 
wistful  glances  and  smiles  at  parting,  jovfurgance^and  smiles 
at  commg-come  when  and  how  he?, night.     In  secre      he  1  a\ 
nKule  over  her  whole  fortune  to  be  his^indisputally   n  tt  In^ 
VI  "rv  hl'"l    T  ^?'Tf'     '^  ^"°'  >^""  ^'""k  her,  perh 

uty,  given  by  the  Earl  and  Countess  of  Dunraith,  in  honor  of 

ual 'ywr:"^"'/^'^^'t     ^'\''-^--  had  run  u  ,  to  Zi   as 
usual,  two  days  before,  hut  had  i)r()mis,.d  to  be  in  n..,^  f->r  iC 

of 'S  aiun;:^^"''  'n  ^^^^^'  ^'^^''-  ^^  '^'''^  and'annl^^nc 
hnvl?  •  'f  ''''•  """^  1'"^  '"  ^'^  appearance  at  all.     The 

bnoe-elect  bore  it  bravely-sonaething  had  detamec'  Fred  ;  she 


54  fV//y  ..VSS  DORMf.R  HATED  FRED   CAREW. 

niissecl  him  sorely,  hut  in  all  things  his  lordly  will  was  her  law 
"  1  he  king  coiiKl  do  no  wrong." 

_  One  hour  after  diiuier,  as  siie  sat  in  the  drawing-room,  listen 
mg  to  the  song  Lady  DmiiMith  was  soniy  singing,  looking  out 
iU  the  tremulous  heauly  of  the  summer  i\vihght,'genmie(rwith 
g()lden  stars,  and  wondering  wislfully  whereabouts  iier  darling 
inigiit  be,  a  note  was  [)resente(l  to  her  by  a  servant,  ll  was  fronl 
/////^— her  iKMrt  gave  a  glad  bound.  This  was  to  exidain  satis- 
factorily his  absence,  no  doubt.  With  a  smile  she  opened  the 
note  ;  from  that  hour  until  the  hour  she  died  no  smile  like  that 
ever  softencJ  the  hard  face  of  Phillis  Dormer. 


"  Dover,  September  i2,th, 


"My  Dear  Mrs.s  Dormer  :— While  waiting  for  the  Calais 
boat  I  droi)  you  a  Ime.  I  am  awfully  sorry  to  disappoint  you  ; 
but  really,  when  it  came  to  the  point,  I  was  not  e(iual  to  it  I 
mean  my  marriage  with  you.  besides,  I  was  engageJ  to 
another  young  lady  before  I  ever  knew  you,  and  my  honor  was 
seriously  compromised.  She  is  i)oor,  but  we  must  make  up  our 
minds  to  that,  1  supi)ose,  somehow.  '  letter  is  a  dinner  of 
herbs  where  love  abideth  than  a  stalled  ox  and  contention.'  I 
was  married  this  morning,  and  we  are  now  on  our  way  to  Paris 
to  spend  the  honeymoon.  Regretting  once  more  any  little  dis- 
appointment 1  may  have  caused  you,  1  remain,  dear 'Miss  Dor- 
mer, very  truly  yours,  Frederic  Dunraith  Carew." 

««  Love  not  !  love  not !  Oh,  Avarning  vainly  said,"  sang  Lady 
Dumailh  at  die  piano,  rhillis  Dormer  crushed  the  note  —the 
curiously  heartless  note— in  her  hand,  ami  listened  to  the  song 
To  the  last  day  of  her  life  the  words,  the  air,  the  look  of  the 
violet-twihght  landscape  would  remain  photographed  on  brain 
and  heart.  She  had  loved  him,  words  are  weak  and  poor  to  tell 
how  greatly.  She  had  trusted  him  with  hei  whole  soul.  From 
that  hour  she  loved  no  one,  trusted  no  one,  to  the  t^nd  of  her 
lile. 

Her  song  ended,  the  countess  came  over  to  lier,  as  she  stood 
111  the  bay  looking  fixedly  out  at  the  rising  harvest  moon. 

"  Was  that  note  from  J<'red,  tiresome  boy?  Why  was  he  not 
here  ?  " 

"it  was  from  Fred,"  Miss  Dormer  answered.  "He  could 
not  come." 


f 


«•//>    mss  DJU^UEK  HATED  FRED  CA/fEm         55 

H-VV'','-'"' "'*-■"'  ',"•'"'<■  '-^Kiy  Dunrailh." 
from  Duiii-aith  Park  forever  Uori.ier  vanisl.ud 

la,5"ng''orcr1:c''i*t'  S  "l'"^  °."'' f  "'I  ^"   '■''"''"■>  "'as 
failed  at  the  elelend,  l,f,r   r  ?•    .    i"'  '^"'■'="''  1''"'=''  '""' 

-a  Hed  fro„.='ti:"et,,ire:r;,/'^J't,^;';:;;,4^-«S-,::r''"' 

forever.     Hc^o     o  ,   a,  u„-,,   ,'  "*'•=  '"  '"'""^  <=^"  '""'  "ff 
^^^  ^^iss  Dormer  no  one  knew  anvtliinrr      tk  ,  i     ■. 

;•.,;--  „„ek  as  ,o„k,  but  with  tite  'devir;'<;;;:i".i:;;:/:ii";;:: 

M^/7VZJ^]'""\  ""1=  ■•".nance  can.e  off.     The 

CyrOl^^t^^n  dtre.tnes::,;'^.r.;°'-?''='^  '■■'''''--■"' 
c.„e  that  letter  dated  "  M^^lSa  "   a'I'd   i/ J  r^S  1S 

me,  1  may   eave   her  -ill  r  ,w.  •        ^"&",'-  "P-        -l'  5,he  pleases 
,1  ^  i^-avi,   iier  ail  i   po.ssess  one  dav      Tf  ch»:>   ,i,.   , 

t^^^f-  '"  >""•  ""  "-"  -  '-">""■  f-  >t«  .""a 

of  S'llrop'r'iivll";;'-',  'T""''",  f  Montreal,  where  s„,„e 
lieperty  la,,  aud  diere  buned  herself,  so  to  speak,  alive. 


5f> 


IV/fV  Af/ss  DORMER  HATED   FRED   CARE  IK 


One^3;car  after  herco.ning  she  road  in  the  Tunes  this  announce, 
*'  At  Brussels.  tl>e  wife  of  Frederic  D.  Carew.  Es,.i,.e.  of  a  son  " 

y..rs  „o  »„f.e„i„g  had  ever  .aU.,  p,ace'i,?rr,i„      c     ,  S 

cart.     In  al    lliese  years  /to  ,„c„„e„t  perha,,,,  „a,  tl,c-  ha,^ 

!•:     grave  7e,rE  ^'^   IJl'"  ''^  ';-'  ^  '-> '■  -^  'a  l,erscl?i^ 

had  grown  a  nnser  '"--•,  uiilc  geneious, 

fon,ily,  and  .h.ir  bearil^g  .o.a'r.P  "",V      "  '^  ''  '"•■■■ '''"'"''''' 

;opzi;ey^;:;;j;s.,eSi::;f^:::;:^;i;iS 

1  am   (luite  siu-eof  it,"  said  Miss   Donner  frrimhr     ut     i 

?f  cf-;^-M-;al:--r:^f  !-^^^ 

iiuui  liuu  by  the  biiblici."  -o'-'o   -(-ii^-.a 

"  Please  don't  say  anything  unidnd  about  papa,  Aunt  Phillip" 


l! 


n 


WHY  MISS  DORMER  HATED  FRED   CAREIV.         57 

'the  girl  cried,  imperiously.     "I  am  verv  foul  of  n,,,.        1  1 
«._  ..v.y.  very  good  .o^.,e.     .•.JH  '^ t^  ^^  o? 

of  s..^.""of  Kfe  *rhS  ,':s"irr""^  -^"^ '- » «'^' 

,    ,  ,  .  ^  ,'     ''"^  "^"  led  before  comin!:r  here  rvrilh 

seeme,   able  to  g.ve  but  the  most  meagre  details.  "  ^     * 

\\  iio  had   given   her  this  very  expensive  ruby  set  ?      Who 

xuLie  was  tiie  tell-tale  inscription: 
ofl"^;  121?'™''  °"  '^^'-  ^"^'f'^^-'J^   '^"•^•-I'-^y.  fro.„  the  most  Devoted 

IREDERIC  DUNRAITH  CaREW." 

oki  eyes  al.s„l„„ly  glar^.l  «vi,h  toy  ',,'"'    eje";"^.^ 

..4Coftw:f^;:sL.-^-i;r„^rj^rc,^? 

"„,,:„,,.-.        ,-  ^,  "1.-'  -'^^  ^"'"i  wuriiicd  on  v  tc>  st  no-  her" 

r,    ;"  '       ",  !"!":.5'-'-'  '^=  ^--«.  -c  and  son.    ° 


a  most  horrible  scene.      ..>,„  ^ii 
shrank  with  a  shudder  of  dis'nist 


,.  .  -  It  was 

Kven  the  gnl's  strong  young  nerves 
'''— -      iJut  outwardly  she  stood 


h 


v 


58       ;r//i'  mss  dokmer  jiated  fred  cakbiv. 

a.  a  rock   her  lips  ,;o,„|,rcss«l,  her  eyes  flashing  black  hVhf 
"a.ftofl're^^l';.  "'""^'"''  ""  °"  "°'-"  '---J  '-»*'« 

My  ciir»e  „|,un  lhen,_the  living  ami  the  dead  l " 

:;;i't;:;:r,iLiri'.ii;ih''''/;"""'-"'^7«-''''"-" 

to  i:ngi;:;;d'as'so™'a'';„,,'',;;;;",^'' """  >""'  '-^  -"•  -=  '>^ck 

n    .or  own  ro„n,,  ,v„h  the  door  locke<i,  st-  iL  g  tse     on  lej 

ev:::'£^tr;;:,tr:r;;!S':h::;o.i''l;:f;;;^'S'-fr-^ 

™;;s"r.Ve?a't:;n":i, .  Tr^'  -'  '^  ^^ '» i^"-i  '^" 

.io,,h?.i;^L'^:rLtta!i  l:::-:ti^ras  thi^'f^lhti^'Kvr,;' "^ 

>«..,;  a  cnarter  of  it^^t^^^  t^^^'^^ 
nie ee  tnarried'lh  ■•■  "°"r',  '^'''''^f  ••-  '"'=''•-'"''  ^r  h  '  H  ^r 
...aide,^  la'fa'o  -fiftv  "l  •  '470  l*:,,"'  '"";"'  "'  "'^'""'  f°' 

marry  l-re     O  re >v      Alii  n^  Owenson-the  oath  never  to 
declined.  ■"'■  "'•■"'l"=k  pronii.tly  and  resolutely 

..K.';  ■;e've;'s:'etnn\?,^i';;"'^=,t'"  "°"  "■'■=*''■'"  ■*^"  -«''     "I 
ailthe  satne,  Anm'  ?■!■  ",  »  ,,  TSke^X^Uth'^'r  "^T'T 

H^;retts;;rn.a--,-^-^,-;-bs 


^j 


^ 


WHY  M/SS  DORMEli  HATED  FRED   CAREW.  59 

heiress.     For  n,y  own  part,  Aunt  Dormer,  find  me  a  rirl,  nnn 
a  nn    onau-c   pleas.,  an.l  I  will  n.arry  Imn' tomorrow."  "' 

U.th  this  Miss  honner  luul  to  he  content- the  niece  Irnl  a 
wil    of  her  own  as  well   as  the  aunt.     It  was  t.tie  t  e  ocln 

af  rile  Cha'r  1"""'  '':^'^^-^-  for  then,  to  corre",>ottd 
at  Mile.  Chateauroy's  palSlo>uuU~^.\^cxc  was  really  no  present 
danger.  He  vvas  poor,  a.  Cyrilla  had  said,  and  Cv  ilia  was  no 
the  knul  of  gul  to  throw  herself  away  upon  a  pooi'  n.an  Lt  he 
gn  .six  fancy  for  '.nn  be  ever  sogreat-not  the  sort  of  girl  whose 
heart  IS  strongei  than  her  head-a  sort,  indeed  thit  is  Zonv 
nearly  obsolete-latter-day  young  ladies'  haW  ^I' ff.  u"h '   u   ^ 

^s:x^z^' '''  '"^"^  ^'^^"^^  ^'-  ^  ^'-  -pS 

Last  midsummer  vacation  Cyrilla  had  met  at  her  aunt's  house 
a  muldle-aged,  sandy-haired,  high-cheek-boned  gen  lema  n' 
troduced  to  her  as  Mr.  Donald  McKelpin.     Mr.  ])onaU  McKe 

set  to  a  fine  Cdasgow  accent,  at  makmg  her  aauiaintance   ac 

hl^Z^i^Mi't  "'"""1^  ^'"'"ri"^^^^  adnnlatlo.;?"^,;:^ 
Ills  cpaitme  Miss  Dormer  mfor-,,)ed  her.niece  that  this  wis  th,. 
gentleman  upon  whom  she  designed  her  to  bestow    e    1  an!  - uul 

Mi"';  ^  ru^T'''  •"  '''^"  ->^Mwtnd.candle  line,  afwho  e 
M Idas-touch  all  things  turned  to  gold 

sivenSr'''ius;"'  '^'"'•'7^"^  ^^'^'?  ''''  young  lady's  submis- 
sive ansvscr,     just  as  you  i)lease.     One  might  wish  him  twenty 

years  this  side  of  jifty,  and  with  tresses  a  trflle  less  0^0x3 
fiery,  bu  after  all  one  doesn't  marry  a  man  to  sit  am  look  U 
hnn.  W  enever  it  is  Sultan  McKelpin's  pleasure  to  h  ow  the 
handkerchief  his  grateful  slave  will  pick  it  up.  WheneveHie  is 
ready  to  make  me,  I  am  ready  to  become"Ln,i„,i,kn.g  o  the 
hfe  the  broad  Scotch  accent-"  Mistress  Donald  McKclpm.'' 

-rhe   clock   in    the   steeple  of  St.    James-the-Less   'striking 
loudly  eleven,   awakes   Cyrilla  from  her  reverie      A  i         t    f 
A  oonhght  floods  the  heavens  and  the  earth  ;  tletret  stand; 
black  and  nearly  lifeless  in  the  crystal  light.     It  is  cSd     00 
but  her  shawl  protects  her.     As  the  last  sonorous  c lu.ne   ou  u^ 
a  head  rises  over  the  wooden  wall,  directly  opposit^to  where 
she  sits.     Her  heart  gives  a  leap.     It  is  Carew.     The T-xd 
auses  a  moment,  reconnoitres,  sees   that  all   is  snf.   and  'h-^n 
the  remainder  ot  Mr.  Fred  Carew  follows.     He  poises  himself 
for  an  instant  on  the  top  of  the  wall,  unguarded,  iftl  "peSul 
town,  by  wicked  spikes  or  broken  bottles,  then  1  ghtly  cho^ 


6o 


"UNDER    THE   rAMAKACS:> 


jf 


leaden  spoilt  runs  round  the  hous        ^h    I  ''"'"'"''   ''  "^ 

'l'i«    precarious   footin.^     -^ml     f  on  ,       '''''''  ^"''•'^^'""  "!'"» 

swings  into  the  stro,'    brand  cs^U  /"'f  "^   ^""^"'^y' 

"ot  the  fust  tune  Mil's  Hend^^^^^  ^T    7'''f  "^  '"'''''■     ^'  '« 

l-'Wound  in  this  tolboy  fa  hL     -^'h":"  f"'*^'  '^^'^'^  'i^e 
to  poise  securely.  ^  "'''''  "'^^  ^^^^s  a  niouicnt 

".For  goodness  sake,  Beauty,  take  rare  "  siv^  Mr    n 
aiixious  voice  below  '       ^^  ^'^^   Carew's 

S^idl'lwh    "^l^'«'^f'^''-^^%."^he  answers. 
I'^iuly  to  the  ground  and  ll^  the 'sid^' of ^Sl  ^1:^^'  "^'  ^^^^" 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"under  the  tamaracs." 

[Y  dear  little  Beauty,  what  a  trump  you  are"'  is 

'  Carew's  enthusiastic  exclamation.   "It's  i;  avvfullv 

of  you  to  come,"  avvuilly 

herself.  anddrlwtb.cV"*'''''"  '"'  '^"'  ''■>■""'•>  '-"'"'-'y  ^.s 

|..-.I.a.  There  is  a  h^^^^^^,  '  ,  1.°, ',, ,  l^;"""  f-  "«v-  "f 
to  11.  I  believe  witli  ih,.  nri.,,'.  i  T  ^  '^"larics.  lot  lis  uo 
than  slaiKli.^""  *•  °"'-''"'-'l».  ll'at  'man  is  Better  sitlirg 

youVi!;^;;?  ii:;:;;;;5-i,"  ^"""s- "-"  *-  ly-g  do,™.,  is  tha. 

I  wish  U  wo"l!neI.e^Vc    ,t'Ie'?,:;=  '■.  ';>;-'"= "^  '-"''>'• 

as  tlu)i!qh  i  wro  a  little  v,c,'\W  \t-       ^  ^  ,'  '^ '^"^'"^l-^  too  much 
and  pink  eyes.''"  ^   ^"'-  *-^'^'"^^'^  ^^ith  a  curly  taU 


Mr. 

good 


'*  UNDER    T//E    r/IAA4A\4CS."  6l 

"  All   right,  Tlcau — I   im.'an  rvrilli  "    'I'l.       i 
Ijenchby  this  ti.ne  and  s^t  c  own      '  It  i     '[,  ''"'^^  ^T'^  ^''^• 
though,  to  refuse  ,.,c  onefratc     V  c.nhr  -.  '■"'."'  "'  >'^*"' 

parted  three  years   an<l  iff    •  n  ,   "^""'V  *-^'  ''^'^'"'«  ^*^  Iwve  been 
out  ^Iiss~vvIfat   v^^;  t   f  o,    7/'|''^'''"""^^'J  '-•^'^'^tions  to  thaw 

"  Yoii  lo,.L     1  ,    , i'^'^--""'  y^^>  Jones,  and  everythint: " 

have  no  tender^scenJs,  i  y^  .ti' M?'  c  u  "'  '  '^r'  ^^^*  ^'"' 
at  any  other  time  You  ..h  1  .v!  '  '^^'-.^-f  ^"^v-  ^''tlicr  now  or 
I>in."  ""  ''■''  ^''^'''''  yo"  "><-*  Aiture  Mrs.  McKel- 

^.^Mr.  Carew's  glass  goes  to  his  eye  instinctively  in  the  n,oon- 

'"  Mrs  ^)o,;;7l  "IT  T':^'-  ^  "  ^'  ""'^'^  l>el,>lessly. 
Mr.  m"k    pi  ''ow^c^^^^^^        ^^'''-^'^  Cyrilla,  w'ith  nnction  and 
not  only    „  lertaken  to  oZm  '''''"'•  u'^^   ^^"'^^   ^''>"'''^  '^^« 
present.'^a  fort     en  thV  fZ^  if' I  ^'^  '"  ^^''"^^/;"^  '"  '^e 
but  a  husband-a  gL  t leu  a     ,  ft    .i  '"^^  'P'''^^  '"■^^I^'"'')' 

chandler,    Freddy    wi  h  a  ro,     V  ^^/^rs  of  age  ;  a  talk, w- 

candles,  knd  hai/a.^"wh-  Cll^tingh  1^?    :;r^'^  T'  '^"[l 
to  announce  this   fact  in   ti.ne  for  vo  u    bcJnt      ?"  "  ''"" 

gaged  >.ung  lady,  Mr.  Carew,  and^t^  ^'\^Ld:Z  bd.;;^ 

4,  iir  ,,  y.      *-'*■"  t  mean  to  tell  mo  th  ir- " 

fancy.  He  is  vor  I  .  h  f  i  ''^''''''  ^"""'^-^  thorou^hh!,  j 
tlncetiuK-sth^t  n^  n?  a  1  l^.  I  .""h'  ''^'""^'  ^^"'^  ^''^'l 
1-th  got  a  goose  sha" I  get^  X  '  l\  w.'^T"'/'  '  "^.  ^'^^^ 
nias,  and  I  have  not  die  sir^^t.;  H  .  .f  '^'\"'''  '"  ^'^"-'^t- 
two  days  after."  °  ^'"''  '^°"''^  ^^""^'^l  ^vill  proi.ose 

;;  And  you  will  accept  him,  Cyrilla  ?  " 

I'hil'sgood  graced  Llisnt'^^^^^  '""'^^''^  ''^'^  Aunt 

but  the  fact  rl»ains-he  ha  .  'it  /ems' to^^  *'""'""^^  '^^''"^^' 
sl>e  can't  marry  hin>  herself,  but  LTc  he  T'h  i'^  "  '"^^ 
pt'tualcont  nencehv  I  .'rh/fr/i  ^  '^nc>  she  tc.  Is  boanil  to  i)er- 

all,  Fred,  it  w  "s  a  sf^:?:'  il^H  -;'^'-T"  ^f^'''  '""""'">'•     ''^'■^- 

-A most heino..;ha.,e .' ';;^;:;n:'c^;t:;;' '"" r'^^"'-;' 

eraDle  ener<rv.     "Mv  fuh^r  ie  T  ,    ^^^'^^^V'  with  coiisic  - 

ful   but  r  wHl  CO      -y        ,      '^  *^^'^^^''  ^•"^'  't  'nay  be  disresu  -ct 
»ui,  Dut  1  will  say,  It  was  the  action  of  a  cad  "  "'^^^^^-cl 


ba 


"  UNDER   TIll'l    TAMAKACS." 


% 


Cyrilla  shnit^s  her  sliuuUIcrs. 

*" '  Like  father,  like  son.'     Are  you  sure  you  would  not  do 
the  same  yourself?" 

"Quite,  Ueauty." 

"  Well,  don't  he  so  energetic.  You  are  never  likely  to  have 
a  chaiux'  of  jilting  mc.  What  I  tell  you  about  Mr.  McKelpin  is 
(jiute  true.  1  mean  to  marry  him  and  lead  a  rich  and  virtuous 
hie  ;  that  is,  if  the  last  of  an  utterly  reprobate  and  castawav  race 
can  become  rich  and  respectable.  How  is  i)oor  i)apa,'Fred 
and  when  did  you  see  him  last  ?  "  ' 

"  I'oor  papa  is  perfectly  well,  as  he  always  is,  I?eau I 

nie-n  (Jynlla.  It  doesn't  Hcein  in  the  nature  of  things,  some- 
hovs,  for  jolly  Jack  ileiidrick  to  get  knocked  up.  It  is  three 
months  smce  1  saw  him,  and  then  he  was  hanging  out  at  Bou- 
logne, in  a  particularly  shady  (luarter,  among  a  particularly 
shady  lot.  My  granduncle  Dunraith,  who,  in  an  uplifted  sort 
of  way,  now  and  then  recalls  die  fact  of  my  existence  had  sent 
me  a  windfall  of  fifty  pounds.  Your  i><)or  papa,  I5eaut\-,  won  it 
Irom  me  at  chicken-ha/.ard,  with  his  usual  bland  and  paternal 
siinle,  and  sent  me  back  to  Aldershot  a  plucked  chicken  mv- 

"  y\h  !  poor  papa  !  "  says  Miss  Hendrick,  heaving  a  si.di. 
^';  Ail  .'poor    papa!"    echoes    Mr.  Carew,    heaving   another. 

lai)a  is  one  of  those  people  whom  it  is  safer  to  love  at  a 
distaiK  e  than  close  at  hand.  He  wept  when  he  spoke  of  you 
and  he  had  not  been  drinking  harder  than  usual,  either.  'Take 
her  my  bless-ess-hessing,  I'leddy,  my  boy,'  sobs  3our  i)oor 
papa,  wiping  a  tear  out  of  his  left  optic  ;  'it's  all  I  have  to  send 
ine  child.  And  then  he  took  another  pull  at  the  brandy-and-waler 
He  s  a  humbug,  Jieauty,  if  h-  is  your  father  !  Don't  let  us  talk 
nbout  h.im— let  us  talk  about  ourselves.  When  are  you  ^oinc 
back  to  Kimlaiul?"  ^       ^    ^ 


■N 


ever. 


''^■;''b;.  ^'O  back  to  England!  What  on  earth 
(Should  I  go  l)ack  for?  Your  father's  noble  relatives  recall  the 
la(:t  ol  your  existence  every  once  and  a  while  :  my  mother's 
noble  rel.itives  totally  ignored  me  from  the  first.  By  the  way 
Ired,  il  your  lather  had  behaved  nicely,  and  married  Aunt  J'hil' 
and  pleased  the  earl  and  countess,  you  would  have  been  heir 
to  all  the  Dormer  thousands  now,  and  my  first  cousin.  Think  of 
that!" 

Mr.  Carew  does  tliink  of  it,  and  the  notion  so  tirkh.c  Mc  k^.. 
ish  fancy  that  he  goes  off  into  a  shout  of  laughter  that  makes 
the  echoes  ruig. 


'«' 


**  UNDER   Tim    r.tMAKACSV 


ly- 


63 

'"^T  tlu)u.an.Is  w  uK  m-^i.:''''^  '^^'S  ^'"  '-^'"'•'^'■^l  ''^e  Dor- 
'">•  f^Uher  had  had  .j  'f  ,  "^  '^Vf;;''^'  >'  '-«  l>y  tins  ti.ne  if 
>va.s  a  genius  fo,  ^^itim    ri        T  "  *"'^/  ^'"'"'"-^  ''^'  I'^-^-^^'^'Scd 

"  Yes  "  Cvrill .     ^         '        ^  ^'*  "'-^^'''  '^'i-^   iny  to  uct  rid  of!^ 

'-<.l'y.     ^^^^h^n.,,y,^^'^l^^'-'^'^-^\  laugh  so 

P"^'tc   this,  and  Miss  Joncl    nvS  ^7    "'"'>  ^'"'^^^ 
open."  •'"-''  '"vaiubly  sleeps  with  one   eye 

an  this  is  beside  the  q  Sion  I  o  '"''•'>'  '"'"  "^  '^^''■^'-  ^^"t 
I  '."can  to  our  soap  a  .'  ie  ina,  ""W^'T  '^  ""'"  '"^'"""- 
->t  cannot  be  possible-     ,v  "'^'  '^  '-'"^  P»««''>Je 

and  n.any  the  .lotchnuin  ?'    ^    '  "''  ^^"'"^'  '"  ^'^'''^^^  '"'-^  over, 

c>!!na  riSs^'il;tl"^l;r;''r '  • ""  °'  ^^'^  ^-^^  '"^'^'^  ^^  ^«t. 

clasp.  "'"'  ^"'  ^  ■'■  '■  -^'-'W  ^  hnn,  and  nuinlains  his 

"  Throw  you  over,  l-Ved  !  I  'I'^e  ^'>  1 1     A.iftu 
oe  any  question  of  loviii.r  nr  •       ,        "  ^^^^^  ^^^^^'■^  ever 

As  if  I  could  ever  olln^^^^^^^^^  I>etween  you  and  n,e. 

a  lover  !  "  ^ ""'  >^''"— '^  s'"'-^"  l>0)   -iu  the  light  of 

^ycl!''a'^!uU  bol'like-nen^T'l'T,'^'^  '^^"^^^«'"-  W^'e 
.'->f<-I  upon  n>e,  the  ,  in  'e  ,n  i"  th'  Y'''  ''^"''^"'>''  '^^^^'-'  X"" 
>n  liloomsbury  ?  Vo,  see  1  am  d.  V'^'  '""^  '^^^'"^  "^S^^her 
nicer  distinctions."  deplorably  ignorant  in  all  these 

lw^Ia;r  irLSon  S^"V'""^'^  '^°'"-^^'  ^^'-y- 

rcsp.  J;;;;ie';i:.  "t^tlK^IS^^-''  ^-^  -^  ^^e  rich  and 
ev:n;;;-;\f^^^^^  Ve. 

;:^;^^ha^:;!:;-^r;;r^^^^^^^^  r^  -^"-'^^ = 

yoi.  your  fortune  six  1  o  rs  I  o      Vn         n'  ^""'  ^^'■^•'''  '   ^"'^ 

l^'-Hle  pirson  with  a  fo  tu m  '       ca  "t'noT     r'''  '^''  ^''^^^'^^ 
1^-  I  have  no  doubt  she  e.isti,^:^frL^---P-^ 


Hi 
V 

V  > 


h  '  f 


m 


64 


♦'  (/ATDE/^    Tim    TA  MAR  ACS. 


ah  It  ,  ,  roperly.  Seriously,  Free],  your  father  made  a  fiasco 
of  111.  lie  I)y  luarrynig  for  love  and  all  that  nonsense,  and  died 
yoai s  l.cloie  his  time  m  poverty  and  premature  old  a-e.  Take 
warning  I,y  him,  and  do  as  1  sjiall  do,  marry  for  money" 

Air.   Carew  smiles  that  peculiarly  snvet    smile  of  his    that 
lights  up  so  pleasantly  his  blonde,  boviHi  face 

ho'li'"- •'  "."■'■^■V''''"«'^l  '"^•'^'^  about  n)arriage  in  the  abstract," 
hcsa^s,     m  lact  I  never  thought  of  it  at  all,  IJeauty,  until  xou\,M 

chick  m'uifl;*'"  ^''' '''''"' °'''"""^'>''  "»1^'««  i  c^^"  call  Cyrilla  Ilen- 
'i-hcie  is  real  feeling  in  his  voice,  real  love   in  the  blue  eyes 

that  shme  ui.on  her.     Cyrilla  Hendrick's  black  ones  Hash  and 

soften  in  the  moonlight  as  they  meet  his. 

"Oh,  J' reddy  !   you  really  are  as  fond  of  me  as  tliis  '  " 

His  answer  is  not  in  words,  but  it  is  satisfactory.     There   is 

silence  for  a  liltle.  ^       -^'«^,ii,   i-, 

;;  And  you  ^vo^'t  marry  the  Scotchman,  'Rilla  ?  "  he  says,  at  last. 

dear  ol.l'     T^^' '     ^'f ',  "^^'-'T  '^'^.  Scotchman,  but  all  Ihe  same, 
K.a,  ol  1  felknv,  you  shall  be  lust  in  my  heart-sucii  heart  as  i 
lb— to  the  end  of  the  chapter  " 

teach^in'"'^  ^^'■■,  ^'^f^-'!"""  •'     I«  t'^''^  the  sort  of  morality  they 
teach  in  young  ladies'  seimnanes,  tlien  ?  "  ^ 

n^  of  itse         V^\  '"•    "^t  '-^'^"-'-l^'-'  «^cms  to  come    to 

^  od  ■  n  ;"""''^;  ^^'-  ^^'-^^^hnn,  and  make  him  as 

good  a  uife  as  he  wants  or  deserves,  and  you  and  1  shall  -o  on 

"'""'v  °V;;  «""^^  ''■'^'"^'^'  i^'''t  tlie  same  as  b.fore." 
I  ...  .    '     ''T'^'n  ^'"''1  ^';"''''''''  ''''^''  '"''"t  unwonted  energy,  "  that 
I    wea    we  sljall  not !     The  day  you  become  Mrs.  McKe  pi.    o 
M.S.  Any-bodyeise,  that  ^hy  you  and  I  part  forever.     None  of 
>c)ur  married  woman  ].lalonic  friendships    for    me  !    The  hour 

i:;^:r;::^':^2^:r^' ''"'' ''''  '^^^"- '- '-'  ^'-^^  '--^^  -^ 

thai  !  "'■"'^'^^'  '  "  '''"'  '''^'''  ^''""'^  ''''^'  ^  -^'^^  "  3'"^'  'lon't  .nean 
:'  r  mean  that,  l?eauty.  Mind-I  don't  say  you  arc  not  ri<dit 
-.1  yo.i  do  marry  the  Scotch.nan,  1  won't  I  lame  you  I  4 
P00.-J  have  my  pay,  just  enough  nt  present  to  kee  me  in 
m^.  rosebiids,  cigars,  and  Jo.  .-in's  first  choic.  1  haJe  nc'e^ 
pec  at.)  IS  ;  a  pouT  man  I  wili  be  as  long  as  I  live.  \o  one 
could  blame  you  for   throwing  mc  over   .or   the   tallow  n!an 


"UNDER    THE    TA3fARACS» 


65 

S  Hke"  ^c"^'  T7.  '"■'"  ""^  '■"^'■'"''^^y  ^'^'-^^  -^^-     My  father 

"It  would  be  the  act  of  a  scoundrel  to  remain  mv  friend     to 

"  Voii  mean  this,  JVfr.  Carew  ?  " 
han,i"rf 'if''^''-''''^  '"''•^"  ''''''  ^'^'ss  Hendrick.     I  will  be  the 

andgooa:,;;'^; ''-"'"'  '™-='"<'  '"^  '""^  ■"  ■"■•■'■■""g  >o"  here, 

he5,rw:k;,^;;^^T.t:;^:r '-'^^ ''°-" -^^ 

coukln'f  h :     "'"'l^'  ^    ^" -'i  ^'^"^  '"^  ?     ^^^l^^t  nonsense  !      You 

'  Sit  -iMoV         -1         *"  ';;,  holding  both  her  hands  once  more 
again/'  ""^'^  ^'""  '^''^  '"^'  ^^•'^^'"  ^-^'^^  ^vhere  we  are  to  Z^i 

"  1  here  shall  be  no  more  meetings  Mr   rnrnur      Ti,«  r  •     j 
si^,.H.I.c,a.,„  sodisc,.i„r,.,„i„  e'lK.^lL^/S  e7d'a.t;ci- 

"Aiui  once  more — nonsense    'RpTntv  i     t    i     r 


66 


**ALL  IS  LOST  BUT  HONOR:' 


•'  Yes,  Beauty— still  ?  " 
tinie'^'"'-  hII;'';M  ^'^^'^ ''^'■'■^^"^^^::  Y  ,  ^yil>^^  has  relented  by  this 
lu  ct.  out,  and  yours  in.     Slie  and  Svdncy  Owenson    xrc  i\l 
onlv  tw,^.n  the  schcK,l  1  would  trust.    'Are'you  s;::::on"n.S 
111  I  etit  ht.  Ja(;(|ues  for  the  wuiter  ?  " 

'-No,  only  teinporarily  ;  oiu"  headquarters  are  Afontreal.   V,y. 

^^\^^.^"'''^  T'  ''"""^'^  ^^^'^^^'  ^^  i"  ^'-^'-^ . 

t  nie,    KUla,  —he  draws  her  closer  to  him  in  the  nioonh-ht— 
'pmnuse  nje  th,s-don't  take  that  oath  not  to  numy  me"" 

hini   an  TTieT;:,  T  !'  '"'T  ''"'^''  "^'''^  •^'^^^^'''^S-     ^he  loves 
nni    and    tlie  last   shadow  of  anger   vanishes  from  hers   like  a 

?'x.';m;l^:;'^"'  "'^■''"''^  "'"'■  ""'■  --  -"  ■'■-'  -^'-t 

1^'  1  thmk  I  may  safely  promise  that  much,  l-Ved— yes  " 
h.ti^  m^kir?"  """^  M^i-lpin-confound  him^-without 
nir^t  '';hf''"V"'''  I"-o'"ises  this  too.     They  are  out  in  the  open 

still  lw;air'i;s{:;:;r  '"  ^'""^  "■'  -norously,  on  the 

"  (k)od  Heaven,  Fred,  nu'dnight !    This  is  awful  '  I  ef  ,n,>  ar. 

th  '   endo^  ;^:r      H '"  'y'"','"^  r'"^^  nimbi/into  her  Aiend, 
ind  ove,^  Ivi  J  ?  '^^'"'''  ^"^'  ^'^'^^'^^'^  h^"'-  f^lambering  up 

P   n  r  sill  of  f^'     T  ''""i/''^^  '^'^^^  water-pipe  and  nfoun 
jH  n  the  sill  of  the  wmdow.     She  waves  her  hand  to  him    uul 
iK-'t.n-ns  to  depart.     With   that   i)arting   snn'le  st  1    n'r  fori 
she  vaults  nuo  the  room,  and  hnds  herself  fice  to  focewi^^ 
Mademoiselle  Stephanie  and  Miss  Jones  ! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"all  is  lost  but  honor." 

RKH  CAREWS  fatal  laugh  had  done  it  all-reached 
Miss  Jones's  slumbering  ear,  and  aroused  her  from    j 

::^:^' >:":;'"  ""''''}'  '^^j  ^^  ^*-  j--^  ^i';; 

with  one  e  r  als      ■    C  i''"'-:    T  '"''^  "  ''^'"^'  ^^^^^^'^^'  truthfully, 
le    si  ml.  !  ,    ,  ^^'  '''  •'  <^'ia'^^'-'^l.  on  this  particularniLdi 

lici  slumbeKs  were  lighter  even  than  usual.  ^ 


*'ALL  IS  LOST  BUT  HONORS 


67 


ed  by  this 

luiggle  my 
n  arc  tht 
L>no(l  here 

treal.  By. 
Montreal, 
n.  Mean- 
onligbt — 
ne."' 

>he  loves 
:rs  like  a 
it  radiant 

s." 
—without 


the  open 
midnight 
',  on  the 


t  ine  go. 

;r  friend, 
;ring  up, 
;1  mount 
lim,  and 
her  face 
i  with — 


reached 
0111  her 
s  slept 

Ithfully, 

ir  night 


la,,!;"  "h"  l^,d  '""af  u;V"""r'  "■"  '"'P"^'  ^o-  with  their 
Miss  J    ,e,_  „  1    ,.f' ,  ''"  ::-"'""-;,''  ^'••'■>'  """^"•■'l  'Wng  witi, 

Mr   f^nr^  .  I     1  ^  °'   *'^'^>'  '^"  ^^'"^^^  sceMi  oossible 

Mr   Caic\v  had  couunitled  hin)self  in  no  way  %rtain]v     hn.f; 

had  given  lier  looks,  and  there  hid  bvMi      n'.  '   '  ^    V'^ 

.1.1,1.  1,  .        "''-i'-  Mcui  u^t^n  tones  and  words   f h^^ 

odd   be  m  wa.t.ng  on  Sunday  to  attend  her  home  after  woi 

trees.  ^  '      ""  '^'''''""'^  'mmnur  of  voices  under  the 

AVas  it  i.j.spiration-the  inspiration  of  hatred,  fh.  inc,.;..^^i^„ 


68 


"ALL  IS  LOST  BUT  IIO^VOAV 


MS 


that  of  her  foe.     Yes,  she  was  right !    There  c^ood  the  bed  nn- 
occup.ed,  the  window  wide  open,  the  girl  gone.     On  /  rl  "d 

Mi  n    ^^y.^'^f'^  '^^'?     l'v-'»  ">ore  (hstinctly  than  up-s.a,rs 

Miss  Jones  could  hear  the  nuinnured  talk  here-one  voice   shJ 
could  have  sworn,  the  voice  of  a  man  ' 

artly,mn,f?r'  '^7  ^'''•^^^^•^i'^"  "^^«  taken;  in  another  siie  l.ul 

moiselle  Stephanie,.  At  last  her  time  had  come  The  nri -.» 
pu,>,I  of  the  school,  her  arch-enemy,  was  in  her  pc;;;er  A  1^ 
"oiselle  Chateauroy,  m  a  white  dressing-^^own,  opened  the 
door,  and  stared  m  bewilderment  at  her  second  Ki  glLh  teacher 
leople  talking  and  laughing  in  tlie  grounds  !  Mi^s  He  Sck 
not  .n  her  room  !     Mon  Duu  I  what\!id  iMiss  Jones  ml^n?    "^ 

Here  is  not  a  second  to  lose,  mademoiselle,"  Miss  [ones 
feverishly  cried,  "  ,f  we  wish  to  see  who  the  man  is  !     It  Ss 

hve    minutes  of    twelve-she    surely  will    not    stay  mud 
longer.     Come  I  come  at  once  I "  ^y'finc.i 

She  took  Mademoiselle  Chateauroy's  hand   and  fiirlv  fnrr,.,l 
her  along  the  chill  passage  to  CyrilhVs  ro,' m.    "llK^^e  e  n 
a  second  too  soon.     As  they  took  their  places  at  t  fe  w i n  1 

erf.  ^^"•.     ^  ''•'"  S-''^^'^''»^"^'«  ^^nn  atfectionately  en- 

circled his  comi)anion's  waist.  ^ 

''Mon  /Jiriif"  mademoiselle  gasped 

of ''lhe'nl'",n'  i^'"""  ''"'  -^"'"i'  °^'''^  ^^''"'  ^^'  '''  '^'^'  '"•■"'■^^"t  light 
adn  i  V     ^       r!  ^^'^'^^"'^^'^  ^^  ^''-^^  glance  her  false,  her  recreant 

b  to  I  i  ^  \  /' '""  ^'"'"'^^^^  "■"'"  '^^^••-it  hacl  all  been  a 
b li  d  to  ead  her  oft  the  scent,  his  attentions  to  herself  He 
and  Cyril  la  Hendr.ck  had  planned  this  meeting.  No  do  ub^ 
el  i,r^'r  ^-^Se^'r'- -- /'-  gullibility  there  unclj  1  e 
thought  '  '""'^'  ""■''  "  ''''^'  "^  '''^'  ^"^  f"'y  ^^  the 

tho",!ht '  wfr  ^'-^  •^'""''  1"^'^^^'  '"^^  ^•■'^'>''  "''"t'^  y"^"-  lov.T,"  she 

{a:si^^^hcru::^hi^^^^ 

bonh;;;;i'''";,f  %'^"lT'r>  •'^^•■''"g  ^-"''^-ce,  extorting  another 
iioi lined      J/,m   /.^/r«"  from  madcaioiselle.     Then   Cvrilli  wis 

^t:s  t:  ''T-  ^;; '"  '^"'  "'"^'  ^'^^"'  ^-'-^^  •- •'  -^  •- 

iKr  lovei,  leaped  into  the  room  and  stood  before  them  ! 

.Imagine  that  tableau  !     Dead 'silence  for  the  snacr^'  of  one 
nHiUite,  during  which  judge,  accuser,  and  crinunal  s'tand  fac  °?o 


he  l)cd  un- 
►n  her  bed, 
illu's  COIU- 
n  iip-stairs 
voice,  she 

;r  she  liad 

I  of  M;i(lj- 

I'he  |iri/e 

r.     Macle- 

ened    the 

>h  feacher. 

lienchick 

mean? 

liss  Jones 

It  wants 

tay  niiicii 

riy  forced 
were  not 
-'  window, 
i  into  tile 
lately  en- 


lant  light 
"  recreant 
ill  been  a 
elf.  He 
lo  doubt 
nder  the 
■y  at  the 

/.^r,"  she 
lid  those 

anotlier 
rilla  was 
hand  fo 


:  of  one 
1  face  to 


*'ALL   IS  LOST  BUT  HONOR:' 


69 


face.     One  fanit  cry  of  sheer  surprise  Cyrilla  had  qiven,  then 
as  her  eyes  fell  on  the  intolerably  exuitanf  face  of  Miss     ol 
e.  haugluy  head  went  up,  her  dari.ig,  resohite  spirit  asLte 
Use  If,  ana   she  faced  them  boldly.     There  was  fiarless  boo 

vnciblc.  I<oi  hei  this  discovery  meant  ruin-utter,  irretrievi- 
be  rum-but  smce  it  had  come  there  was  notiiing  for  it  v hi 
ili  Si,  r*-^  ■'"""  ^"'^^"^^^  °"  particularly,  but  to  face  it  without 


rnl  iFT^  "^'^'^  .?\^/  ^'''  "e^^^nck,"  Mademoiselle  Stephanie 
coldly  began.     "  You  also,  Miss  Jones  "  t^^naniL 

onH'l^ll'in  "^^  ''r^  ^'^"-^  ^?  '^'"•'  "^""  '^""'"'  ^^here  a  lamp  burned 

the  .wo  eachers  looked  in  their  long  night-robes,  and  a  faint 
suHle  fii  ted  over  Cynlla's  face  as  she^.llowed.  Made  noi  die 
closed  the  door  carefully,  and  then  confronted  the  cul  it?  ^ 
'  Now  f(;r  It !  Cynlla  thought.  "  Good  Heaven  !  what  an 
unlucky  wretch  am  !  Nothing  can  save  me  now." 
H,,.^  1  '  1  f  ^-^^''^^^'-'^k,"  Mademoiselle  Chateaurov  began,  \n 
hat  cold,  level  voice  of  mtense  displeasure,  "what  liaveyou  to 
s.^>  i  1  presume  you  have  some  explanation  to  give  of  to-iii-ht's 
most  cxtraordmary  conduct."  b    ^  01  10  m^nc  s 

"A   very    simple    explanation,    mademoiselle,"    Cvrilla   an 
su-ered.      "I  thank  you  for  letting  me  make  it.     No  I  ii.  can 
wlio  ly  excuse  a  pupil  keeiMng  an  assignation  with  a  gen  il.na 

n  the  school-grounds  by  nigiu-of  that  I  am  awa,^e-b      a 
least  my  motive  may  partly.    1  have  heard  no  news  of  mv  father 
fo.  over  a  year  ;  I  went  to  hear  news  of  him  to-night.'     This 
known^  ''  ^  rs.    )elamere's,  1  met  a  gentleman  whou.  I  lave 
known  from  chi  dhood-who  has  been  as  a  brother  to  me  ^-^nce 

ly  earliest  recoUect.on-who  was  a  daily  visitor  at  my  father's 
house  m  London      1  was  naturally  anxious  for  news,^o      a,- 
m  particular,  and  would  have  received  it  then  and  the  e  bu   for 

a  worlr  .h  :  •"^"■*^''-'-'"^^^-  ^'-^  -«"1^'  not  allow  us  to  exchange 
W  hr  T''^:;,':^"^"  "te  to  make  me  leave  him.  and  I  obeyed. 
U  hat  followed   Miss  Jones  knows.     He  and  1  did  not  excluuv  e 

norttl  T'^^  Y''  '"''""  '"■  '''''  ''''  '""  ^"'^  -'-'  '-  had  an  i,n? 
poitant,  a  wx/  nnportant  message  to  deliver  from  mv  father 
and  was  determmed  to  deliver  it  to-night.  I  refused  oS 
hun  at  hrst,  but  when  I  remembered  ,t  was  mv  c.^ly  u  nc  of 
heanngfrom  poor  pa,KV,  that  no  letters  were  "allowed  to  c^.ue 
to  mc,  1  co/^sented.     He  came  over  the  wall,  and  1  descended, 


70 


'*ALL  IS  LOST  BUT  I/O.VO/i." 


"S^t^J^  ^""  "■  ^"^  '"'""''^''  ""^^  ^^'"^"^^^-     'i'hat  is  the 
fh(v",r"!^°n^'"'f  ^"^"^^i"^  s^O'-"  ^nd  unbelief  on  Miss  Joncs'« 
Stc  ,un,e  .      Neither  of  th.m  beheved  a  word  slie  had  said. 
1)0.:^     lomette  know?  '  Mademoiselle  Chateauroy  asked 

Ut  Uidt  at  lea.t  1  am  ghid.      It  is  sutncieatly  bad  to  in-,-  a 
pup.   m  ,ny  sch..ol  capable  of  so  sha.neful  and  /vil  an  act    v  th' 
h    o";r'"l  "^V^^    '^  ^-'•'••Uned  the  mmds  of  orh^    'h^ 
nnocent  gu-ls.      l^or  three  and  twenty  years,  Miss  lieulnd 

b"uh  of "  "'T  I'f ""  "'/'■"  -hooUnd  in  alitlm    ;m:;>i 
uieatli  ot  scandal  has  touchc(i    t      Wild  i,ii,>;i  •  -  ,       .  •, 

^Hsobedient  pupil,  I  have  haAian^-/  !$  ^  iiS'''/::^' 
ing  trom  her  cluunbers  at  nn-dnight  to  n.e'et  a  young  ,.an  iil    he 

eacli  o   C>i Ilia   liendnok's  dark  cheeks.     Sonieti^in-  in  mul-. 
no  se  le  s  snnple   co!d;,.poken  words  made  hei    A;:.1   hrt^ 
h=.t  ume    how    shametnl,   how    unmaidenly  her  escamU.'  h  .' 
been.      Up  ..  U.e  ruesem  she  had  regarded  it  as  r^   h  r^a  ^oid 

mad.  he,   t.-J    u       rdl  that  was  worst  in   the  girl  an,se-her 
eyc^  .la.he..  her  handsome  lips  set  themselves  m  snU  ■     wra  h 
1     luuik  Heaven,  and   I   thank  my  very  good  fric-l    \lt 

mc  It  has  not  been  d<Mie  again  and  again  ?  " 

111  ^1  \i^f\^ould  ever  happen.     Miss  Dormer  would  hear 

'ou        r'l    '^"^'"""^■:?  t'^^:  -'--•'  -^l-'il-l  Miss  Uorn^; 

d     o    :,  '''"'•'''  ^^"''^'''''  '■^""'  ^"^^  '^'^t'li''^'  -^lie  could 

face  if  ;     ^^^^^'^'/^^.^'-^  '^  '^"T-     '^^'^^'  '^^f^  '^'-'^  ^^»'"^'  over       e 

c^all-         °      1  '''TT  ''^^"^'^'  ^-^^  ^he  hrst  tin,e  the  strong 
cajiaiiuitics  ol  evil  wuhiii  her.  ^"uu^ 

drick  V'^mvhV^  "n  "'  ^^" ''"'  ^°""S  '»^»  you  met,  Miss  lien- 
uiick.-'     iiKuJemoiselle  went  on. 

Cyrilla  lifted  her  darkly  angry  cy.  , 

"  I  have  given   you   an  explanation  of  my  conduct,  made 


^ 


I'hat  is  the 

riss  Joncs'a 
.clciiioisclle 
ui  said. 
oy  asked. 
ic  I  went." 
to  liave  a 
1  act,  with- 
oiher  ,11  id 
einlrick,  I 
It  iiini:  no 
c^ry  j)ii|)i!s, 
lo  ol  .-.teaU 
i^in  in  the 
'u  I  never 

neat  into 
in  mado- 
■1  for  the 
l>ade  had 
t-r  a  gootl 
ii;.,'  sluune 
nen  who 
')se — her 
-n  wratli. 
■nd,  Miss 
has  been 
is  to  tell 

IS  folded 
me;  the 
uld  hear 
former's 
s  was  at 
le  could 
>v-er  the 
e  struDir 

ss  Men- 


,  nude- 


"'^LL   /S  LOST  BUT  HONOR."  71 

"His  name  was  Mr.  Carew,"  said  Miss  Jones,  opening  her 
I'usihers-''  """•     "^''^^''^'"^"^^  ^*'^-"^^'ic  ^arew  of  the  _ 

unonVSnv.!'}'   •"^°;'"^^''°"  ^^•''-  ""-'tion.  I^t  exultant   eyes 
at  ner — a  look  not  good  to  see. 

"This    is    your    hour,  xMiss   Jones,"    that    darkly    ominou, 
glance  said.     "  Mine  shall  come."  ^   ommou. 

Mademoiselle  Stephanie  made  a  careftd  note  of  the  name, 
i  1  at  uu.  uo.  Miss  Jones.     1  will  not  detain  you  from  your 
needful  rest  longer.     Of  course  it  is  unnecessary  fo  ca u^n    o 

^^"Ckf "' n'  "'""^  ^r^'-"*"s  this  diUcJhdd  c" ;: 

r  th  ^      ^1   '''''^'''  '"'"^  ^'^  ^^'^'^l'^''"  "''^l^^'  truth  get  abroad  or 
each  tile  other  young  ladies.     Miss  Hendrick  u.ll  reinai 

Slie  has  been,  not  the  pupil  I  have  best  lovid,  but  the  pupil 
have  most  been   proud  of.     It  gives  me  a  pa.  g,  I  cam  o  '     e 
cnbe  how  great,  to  lose  her,  and  thus.    1  an\  sJj'ry  for  .  ^  o    n 

t':^,  ^::^^ '-'''  ''^^  '^^  ^«-^^-'  ^^  -  ->■-  -i  -w, 

"'I'lien    let    my  three   years'  good    conduct   plead    for   me 
mademoiselle,"  Cynlla  said,  boldly.     "  it  is  my  i.st  olfence-i; 
shall  be  n.y  last.    Say  nothing  to  iny  one  ;  let  ine  rcM  ,    ,     .nt 
Chns  n,as_not  three  months  now-and  quit  the  schoo       s 
have  lived  m  it.  With  honor."  '        ^ 

"  Imno'^'i!'l"''M''  ^ti^"k  her  head,  sorrowfldly,  yetinexorably. 
lmio.v.ible,  Miss  Hendrick.  Vou  have  been  guilty  of  an 
ottence  tor  which  expulsion  can  be  the  only  punish.nent.^  How 
could  I  answer  to  Heaven  and  the  motheis  of  my  pupil  for  the 
g  1  t  of  allowing  anyone  capable  of  such  a  cri.ie  ^o  ming t 
Hith  tnem  and  deprave  them  ?"  ^ 

The^^^nH  ■'  '^'^"r^'''' ' '  y^'V"  '''■°"S  language,  mademoiselle, 
met  if      "T       '"''  ^''r'  ^''''  ^"  '^'^  ^''^  '^^  '"y  l"<)ther- 
other     av       ^^'^f  "-^s  of  my  father,  which  I  can  l.ear  in  no 
otncr  way.     And  that  is  a  crime  !  " 

c,,,/'^,'^?"^ '''°-\'"«^obedience,  against  all  delicacv  and  mnid- 

cn._>  muciesry.     Jh.l  u  iuis  been  done,  and  no  talking  will  undo 

t.     Go  to  your  room.  Miss  Jones,  and  be  silent.     Vou,  Miss 

Hendrick,  shall  remain  with  me.     To-morrow  I  will  write  to 


72 


'A    TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOT." 


\ 


"  AikI  ilic  sentence  of  tlie  courl  is  that  voii  ho  t-.l-,..,  h   „ 

crnnnial    in    the  dock    must   feel       Si  ^r.    M  '       ''"'■'''^' 

but   nwardly-"  all  within  was  black  as  ni.dit  '^  '         ^        ' 

a   s„ra.k,l,  a,„|.ly  furninhal  with   pilll     a    i  n  |   ""l'  ',""' 

':  You  w.l    undress  and  sleep  here,  Miss  Hcnd  k*"  ,nn  1 

a.ns  o„t  of  ,„„lc  l,ills  if  you  like,  but  Ion'    ex„i     ,'    „  call  " 

them  niountams  too.     Write  to  mv  nunt    .  , 

please,  but  M,cantin,e  don't  insult T.fe"'  '''^''  '"^'  "'^^"  ^"" 
And  then  Cyrilla,  thngin-  her  clothes  in  a  heap  on  the  near 
est  d^,r,  got  uuo  the  soR^bed  and  turned  her  ^HuLi;  to 

"There  goes  my  last  hope,"  she  thought,  "thanks  to  mv 
horrible  temper.  1  ;;,/./,/  h,,ve  softened  her  to  o  row  no^ 
there  isn't  a  chance.  Like  Francis  the  Fir  J  Z  '  ]7'"^--  "."^ 
lost  but  honor  ! '"  "^''^'  ^^  ^^^''^>    all  is 


CHAPTER   IX. 


sigl 


"a  tempest  in  a  teapot." 
HE   dim  firelight  flickered  and  fell,   one   by  one   the 

^  ehi.:^  ^'"''"■•|'%^'^^^:^'  ^^^"  ""  t'^^'  old-fashioend 
'led  iron  "rr^?"''iT''''  f  ^"*''''-  ^'^^'  '-^I't'-ninal  wind 
.cd  around  t^  -  gables,  and  noaned  and  whistled  throudi  the 


CI 


ss  yoii  will 

k(.'n  lie  nee 
gecl  by  tlio 

She  hail 
,  cowering 
giiio  now. 
-d,  with  a 
'est  guilt ; 

the  room, 
iecejnion, 
s.  Many 
nt  on  this 

Ik 

w,"  inade- 

Of  /t'  /}(>/t 

o  say  so, 
:e  nioiin- 
le  to  call 
'lien  you 

the  iioar- 
llenly  to 

s  to  my 

'w — now 
,  *  all  is 


TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOT» 


)ne  the 
by  one 
ihioend 
il  wiiul 
iigli  the 


and  sat  moodiy  down      Jn    sh^v.tc  r.f  ,    n         y'   i">-  snuitcrs, 

steeped  fields  and  forest     I  e  Riu  S.   T         '^^  •'^'-''''  "^''  '""''"' 
lik"  1  b..h  nr-,-|.,  ..    iV  '  .v'"-  ^^-  '^'^>"»"ii(iiie  wound  alonir 

sound  t   >e   ,;    d'bes  r;hT  d'T'  f'"^'  ^^  '"'  ^^^^'"'  ^  --^'^' ' 

wind.     And,^ui  g  d  e  e  ^.-  h  lo  k  ?ri^'"^°  "^  ^'^^  ^'^^"'^^'• 
in  the  face  '  ^  ''^'"'-'^  ^'^"''  P'o-^P^cts  straight 

Carcw's  name,  as  a  niatter  of°co    1»    il,  n      "''  «"''"S  Mr. 

IVfiss  Dormer  niiaht  cm  dom.     H  '  ""''  '"'*''''  ^n<,voxx^  faults 

nv„r  ,n,l  •      ,    -      '^'^'-  "-y'lla  coiiics  of  a  bad  stock  l  " 

ov.r  a,ul  over  agam  the  olrl  n.aid  had  hissed  o„t  he,  nrel  cHon  • 
^^and  mark  .„v  words,  my  niece  Cyrilla  .il,  c™„e  ['o";,  g^i 

^^^The  end  had  c„„,e  sooner  than  even  Miss  Dorn.er  had  ex- 
."o'l'';voJl'd  se"d  .!!;7back  '''"'  •?"°"^-'-''f""'S  "'•-■'•■  ^-t  I^or- 

\  .,.,:.,.■  ,."","^''  >'    ^''^  '^'^^Ini  of  va-abondia  !      A^  y:\.,\,\u,  .,. 


74 


"A   TEAfPEST  IN  A    TEAPOT:' 


shorn,  sitting  up  the  night  long  with  kindred  spirits  over  thfl 
greasy  pack  of  cards,  fleecing  smnc,  and  being  tlolm  by  o(  .crs 
he  ncke  y  furnmne,  the  three  stut.v  little  n,on,s,  theC  n'r 
fun  ed  jv.th  tobacco  and    brandy  and    water,   her  elf  dTa-S 
and  unkeM.pt,  nisulted  by  insolent  love  making,  spoken  oft  it 
coar,c  and  jeenng  sneers.     Oh  I  she  knew  it^all  so  weir'A 
her  hands  clenched,  and  a  sutfocating  feeling  of  pain  and  shame 
lose  m  h.-r  throat  and  nearly  choked  her 

Oir^^/n'iv!!;;'?"'  '-''V"'^^'"'/'  ':'^^^'''  ^«"''^r  than  that! 
gain  so  little.-'  '""•'''  '"^''^  '''''  "'^''^^ '    '^  "^'^  ^°  '""^-'h  to 

^  A  feeling  ofhof  swift  wrath  arose  with  in  her  against  I-Ved 

vomV^  ^-n 'T  '"'"''^  "r-  ^'^^  °^  >'°"'"  ''^""^-  ^  ^vill  never  rmn 
yo  .  b.  1  hat.  or  son,etiung  like  it,  he  had  said  to  her,  and  no  v 
— all  unconscious  V   t   s  true— th.      .  i  ,     . 

come,  and  through 'him  '  ''^'^  V'^^V^^^^  I'ad 

"1  \yill  never  go  back  to  my  father."  she  thought  a-  in    this 
tune  with  sullen  resolution.      "  No  fate  that  can  befall  7.  eh  re 

forVnyM-ir-'        ^    ''"''  '''"'  "'^'  •*  ^  ^-^^'^""^  ^^"•^-'  out  a  dest.uy 

done-no  repeulance  co.dd  undo   a.      No  use  ueepin.^  ^n -'s 
!y'I^T'  "T:  "^'  l"7"^^'''--l>:^st;  mu<-h  better  and  ui'ser'tot    n 

TwoumI     V'^'^'^''"'^;  ."''^  would  be  expelled  the  .honb 
she  would  be  turned  out  of  doors  b-    her  aunt,  ail  for  a  s -ho.  ' 
girl  escapaue,  mdecuous,  perhaps,  bui  no  heinous  ci une,'suu  Iv 
Was  she  to  yield   to   Fate,  and  meekly  s.d.n.it  to  the    hWe 
tlc^  would  put  upon  her?     Not  she  !      lier  ehin  aro^e     n1neh 
ate  thought,  smmg  there  alone-her  1  andsome,  resohue  In 
set  themselves  in  a  tight,  determined  Hue.     She  .'.nld  take    er 
ife  m  her  own  keepmg,  away  from  them  all.     Si     vvoul    ,  ev e 

"S  ^  Id'^^Hu r ?'  "f"^  ^'"'^  '"^  disreputable  asso<St::s 
ine  \\oil(   was  all  before  her  wh^^re  to  choo^    ."—what  shouhl 
tha   choice  be  ?     Two  alternative...  1       before  her.     S  e  I 

go  to  1-red  Carew,    .  \]  him   -!l,  an<l       (he  verv  .nrliest  nos  ,1 
jnoineiu  after  the  re     lation  she  knew  he  :^u .d'ln^k    ^  ^T'    ? 
uile      His  wife-and  she  must  march  with  the  reLMinent  •  both 

I-        •       ,  '    •'•  -'  '"  uuii,niei..s  iiii       .1(1  ijiovoi         I  ii,M/  i.m.-f 

l.v>.  n,  A„gv  io,isi„gs,  andapiical  Iran.bly  iu'a:i  c'lren'it'to  .1,; 


\ 


f 


%■, 


ts  over  tha 
il  by  others, 
tlie  air  i)er- 
If  ilra[,'glc(l 
ken  of  willi 
well—and 
and  shame 

tlum  that ! 
3  much  to 

ainst   I<'rcd 

lever  rnir, 
r,  and  now 
si>ects  liad 

again,  this 

I  n)e  hero 

America 

:  a  destiiiy 

rilh  Hen- 
done,  was 
>ing  one's 
ier  to  tiiru 
le  sciiufd; 
a  s"h()i  ' 
)e,  Si.K  iy. 

dis;_jrace 
e  ;in  incii 
olute  lips 

take  her 
Lild  never 
s.sociates. 
at  should 
le    uv.j^ht 

l)ossil}le 
-  Iier  hh 
tit  ;  budi 
as  I'red 
ley  nuist 
tj  Lo  thrt 


Right  Hon.  the  Karl  of  Dimi     ',  for  h,-l.,       r  ;r  .  1    , 

on  an  cxoesnivHy  .„al,hy  an,l  ,      '  .f    K    s,a  f  iX,'  -'S 

CvrilH    1        I        '""'''  '"""^  '^  deplorable,  poor  little  deir  I" 

S:;l'^,::;;:;;f  !;,:zrrrttn,a'i,,t^'if  l^'r ''■ '^^r 

me,  and  let  n.e  henpeck  hini  aU      ^    i       '         t       '"'  ''•'''' 

do,',;  Cn,i  s '  :'.f l:,'e'zrr  r' "  '""■"■«  '«'^  -^  >-■ 

llie  fuinr,.      iv„l,  i     ■  i'      ,    '^'  '•'•'1'^  "f  projecting  horsilf  into 

ov.T  him  alternaleiy  all  on       i,Ye-oh   \  h  ,         an.i  lyraM„,« 
>'■"!  it  was  not  to  bl     -n;.,.  Zt  r^n,!.:;:'-?'/'"-'  '"  ''"'™'"^  ' 

en.-;;.,:'^-  sir'-™:,  ,t„i':^  ^;;;r™:f  "^i^'jir;;'--"— "«>  "-■ 

one  without Tnouled^^         .1  ^>''"l"V'^""'"^'^'  "^  ^'^^'  ^'^^^  ""^  '-^s 
staple      f   her   acm^^^^       1  hoatr.cal    people  had  forn,ed   the 

iKvIds  ad  purpfe  ^cl      'k?""^'''"'''''-^'"    '''''^'    close-cropped 
ladi..     d^n       '    .  '    '-'-'''  ^'"^"^^  v"'ces  and  glarintr  eves— 

uuiL  ,  slangy  as  to  conversation,   loud  as  fo  r1,t        ^  i 
^s  to  manners   and   mint,.rl  .  •  /    r  ,^     '^^^'  audacious 

»"t.  ■  ha     ufM-rorm J,!  .         /  "n  "^"^  '''  '^'  ^1^"''^  quailed 

l^^Kl  e.  e  vear      tW  ^^  '"■'^''^^^  theatncals,  she 

of  the  Stran        H  SOS  h     h    "'"^  ?  n"""^^  *'^^""^  "»  "  '"""-" 

stage.  sheu.j^id]^^d':.,nS:t'..!'i;^'^'  '^'^ ""  ^'- 

bright  destllly^  ^^^^''  ■  \- ^'5"'  ^'^^  ^«"'^\""^  ''''''  ""^  ^ 
/   ui  nerbt  it.      .  .un^  ^he  uas  not ;  but  she  knew  to 


I  ▼ 


76 


**A    TliMPF.ST  m  A    TEA  POT'' 


'  ti 


i; 


m 


m 


the  uttrrinoM  iota  the  market  vahie  of  her  blickeyes,  her  loiu' 
waving  black  hair,  her  dark,  hi,-h  bred  lace,  her  tall,  supple 
form,  her  thorough  knowledg,.  of  French  and  (Jerman,  her  rich 
r-MitnUto  voice.  Kach  one  wms  a  steppiiii,'  stone  tofutm-e  fame 
am  fortune.  And,  as  she  tho!i-ht  it,  worn  oiii  by  watchin" 
and  her  unusual  vi,:,'il,  her  head  fell  forvvartl  on  the  window-silf 
and  she  dropjjcd  asleep.  * 

It  wa-,  six  l)y  the  little  chimney  clock  when  the  harsh,  disso- 
naiit  nngingofa  bell  awoke  simnltaneouslv  all  the  inmates  of 
the  pcnsioiinat.  It  aroused  Mademoiselle  Stephanie  among 
the  rest.  The  morning  had  broken  in  true  November  dreari- 
ness, m  dashmg  rain  and  whistling  wind,  in  bleakness  and  chill. 
^  \\uh  a  yawn  Maden,  ,iselle  Stephanie  sat  up  iu  bed,  shiver. 
ing  and  blue,  and  the  tirst  object  upon  which  her  sleepy  eves  rest- 
ed was  the  drooping  form  of  her  prisoner  by  the  window,  in  sleei) 
so  deep  that  even  the  clanging  of  the  bell  had  failed  to  arouse 
her.  She  had  evidently  sat  there  all  night,  cried  herself  to  sleep 
probably,  an  '  a  pang  of  i)ity  touched  mademoiselle's  kindiv  old 
l-rench  heart.  ]{ut  it  would  not  do  to  .show  it.  Miss  Hendrick 
luu  sinned,  and  Miss  Hendrick,  by  the  inevitable  laws  of  nature 
and  grace,  nuist  suffer.  She  dressed  herself  shiveringly,  went 
over,  and  laid  her  hand  lightly  on  the  sleeper's  shoulder. 

"My  child,"  she  said,  -  wake  up.  You'll  get  your  death  of 
cold  sittmg  here." 

Cyrilla  lifted  her  head,  l,.okiiig  in  the  dim  gray  niorninf^ 
hgnt  palhd  and  wretch  ,1,  and  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance? 

"My  death  of  cold  ?  "  she  repeated,  bitterly.  "  Xo  such  luck, 
mademoiselle.  It  is  almost  a  pity  I  do  not;  it  would  be  infi- 
nitely better  for  me  than  what  is  to  come." 

She  stood  up  as  she  spoke,  twisting  her  profuse  dishevelled 
black  hair  around  her  head,  looking  like  the  Tragic  Muse,  and 
ully  prejured  to  do  any  amount  of  melodrama  for  ma'amselle's 
benefit.     Ara'amselle  looked  at  her  in  distrust  and  displeasure. 

"Do  you  know  what  you  are  saving,  Mees  Hendrick?  It 
would  be  better  for  you  to  be  dead  than  dismissed  this  school. 
— i.s  that  what  you  mean  ?  " 

"Not  exactly.  J f  nothing  worse  than  being  dismissed  this 
school  were  to  bef^xll  me,"  answered  Cvrilla,  with  an  inllectioa 
of  contempt  she  could  not  suppress,  "  I  think  I  could  survive 
It.      No,  ma'amselle,  much  worse  than  that  will  follow." 

"I  do  not  understand,  Mees  Hendrick,"  savs  ma'amselle. 
Sliiily.  '  ' 

"  It  means  ruin,  then  I "  cries  Cyrilla,  her  eyes  flashing,  her 


• 


lier  loMir, 
.II,  su|)|)le 
,  her  rich 
til  re  fame 
watcliiiiLj 
ndmv-.sill, 

rsh.  (lisso- 
iiiuvtes  of 
io  among 
or  (Ireari- 
and  chill. 
(1,  shiver- 
I'vcs  rcst- 
r,  in  sleep 
to  arouse 
r  to  slee|) 
iiully  old 
leiuhick 
of  nature 
l\y,  went 
r. 
death  of 

morning 

I  glance. 

ich  luck, 

be  inl'i- 

hevelled 
use,  and 
unselle's 
easure. 
ck  ?  It 
scliool, 

sed  this 

lilection 

survive 

aniselle, 

ing,  her 


r 


*'A   TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOT^  77 

tone  one  that  would  have  been  good  for  three  rounds  fron,  pi* 

w  n  M    V 'T.~;^    ""^■''  '"^-'"'l^  ^"'"  •'    '•'^'^•"'  "'^v'amselle.  anc    I 
I     el    you  this  n,ornn,g  what  1  would  have  died  so(,ner  thai 
last  mght  m  the   presence  of  tl.a,   s,)yand  inforn,er.   is 
Jones  !     Oh   yes  !  n)n-an..selle,  I  will  call  her  so.     What  does 

iav  o;  t:^  '  r '  ^^T  '  ^'1'  '^  '"^"^''  i^nonmuouslyout  in  ' 

iMa'amselle  stood  perfectly  transfixed,  while  Cyrilla,  with   i,n- 

ussioned    elo.|uence,    poured  into  her  ears  the  story  of  A    ss 

" m.er's  hatred  of  all  who  bore  the  name  of  Carew.    ^I ow   he 

si  c  hv.,1  ;  how  good  he  had  been  to  her  an<l  her  father  in  the 

Tlfu'    ^''f"^'  ^  pure  brotherly  and  sisterly  affection  there 

as  between   the.n,  how  absolutely  ignorant  she  had  been  of 

s  conung  to  Canada,  how  petrified  with  astonislunent  at      Tt 

of  hun,  how  he  had  striven  to  tell  her  news  of  her  father,  h?,  y 

A    sso        ,„,,.,. f^.^^.j  and  prevented  it,  how  in  despe  aim 

he  hac    implored  her  to  grant  him  ten  minutes'  interview  in  the 

grounds,  and  how,  in  very  despair  at  being  unable    o  nee    1  in 

;n  any  other  way,  or  even  write  to  him,  she  had  consei   ed        n 

lewnd'"':::"'?  -""^'1  ^''"'l^'^'"'-^'  ^..ulemoiMdle  was  abso  I.te  y 
bcuildeied  and  carried  away.  How  was  the  little  simple-minded 
schoolmistress  to  estimate  the  dramatic  capabilities  if  her  very 

w  ociVldtd??  Tl  '"7:;;"'«—l"^^'. to  cither  fate.  After  all. 
m     in  r.        ''  «''ttcrmg.  gas-lit  life  of  the  stage,  with  its 

m    lit'  I      I  '"1  ;'''  '•'  ^\"''''''  '''  ''''''  «f  ^'^^^'^'^  '•^^l'"'"'  K  face 
nught  be  hard  to  win,  but,  once  won,  would  it  not  be  imh   telv 

eferable  to  thecleathly  dulness  of  existence  cha-'^'e       1  t  as 
A^i'f  1"    li^e  neh  ,,H,  respectable  Mr.  Donald  McKn 
And  If  he    dark,  bold  eyes  and  gypsy  face  really  brought  her 
noney  and  fame    why.  then,  she  nlight    send  for^   I'lecfdv  a„c 
marry  hun,  and  "  live  happy  ever  after  "  ^ 

AlM.Iemoiselle  Stephanie  stood   listening  to  Miss  Hendrick's 
d  emen   outburst  with  knitted  brows  and  pursedup  l"  '  ,y 

H  M  Icxed  and  at  a  loss.     A  great  olfcux-  had  been  doi  J   i m 
vi'-'llcled  m  the  annals  of  ih. />e.su>.u,,,  an  offence  or  wh  ch 
'"nj^hate  expulsion,  by  every  law  of  right  and  niora  ity.  s       I 
be  the  penalty.     lU.t  if  that  expuNio.Avas  to  rmn  this  vo     L' 

ncsuaie      bhe  had  ever   been    siuh  a  credit    to  them  all    and 
really  her    story   sounded   plausible,   and-nudeino!seUe  w^ 


78 


**A    TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOTS 


staggered,   dividctl,    between  pity  and  duty — completely  at  a 
loss. 

"Yoii  are  quite  sure  your  aunt  will  deal  with  you  in  this 
severe  fashion,"  she    asked,   her  brows    bent.     "You  are    not 
deceiving  nie,  iMiss  Heiidrick?" 
^  "I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  stating  falsehoods,  mademoiselle," 
C)rilla  answered,  majestically. 

"And  she  will  send  you  in  disgrace  back  to  your  father?" 

"  She  will  try,  mademoiselle,  but  I  will  not  go.  No !  papa 
is  poor  enough  without  an  additional  drag  upon  him.  1  will 
never  go  back  to  be  that  drag." 

"  Wiiat,  then,  will  you  do  ?  " 

"  Pardon,  mademoiselle  !  I  decline  to  answer.  Once  I  am 
expelled  this  school  your  right  to  (uiestion  me  ends." 

"  Hut  I  have  not  expelled  you  yet,  and  I  demand  an  an- 
swer, Mees  Hendrick,"  cried  mademoiselle,  her  little  brown 
eyes  flashing. 

Cyrilla  laughed  after  a  reckless  fashion. 

"1  might  marry  the  gentleman  1  met  in  the  grounds.  After 
compromising  me  in  the  way  he  has  done  it  is  the  least  repara- 
tion he  could  make,  and  [  am  sure  he  would  if  I  asked  him." 
Heie  catching  sight  of  mademoiselle's  face  of  horror  and  incre- 
dulity, Cyrilla  nearly  broke  down.  "  Jiut  you  need  not  fear  ;  I 
shall  not  ask  him.    1  shall  go  to  New  York  and  go  on  the  stage." 

Mademoiselle  Chateauroy's  eyes  had  been  gradually  dilating 
as  she  listened.  At  these  last  awful  words  a  sort  of  siiriek  burst 
from  her  lips  : 

"  Oh,  mon  Dieii  !  hear  her  !  go  on  the  stai^e  /  "  cried  little 
mademoiselle  in  piercing  accents,  and  precisely  the  same  tone 
as  though  her  abandoned  pui)il  had  said,  '  1  will  go  to  perdition  ! ' 
"  Mees  Hendrick,  do  1  hear  you  aright  ?  Did  you  sav  the 
stage  ?  " 

"  1  said  the  stage,  mademoiselle,"  Cyrilla  repeated,  imperturba- 
bly— "  no  other  life  is  open  to  me,  and  for  tb.e  stage  alone  am  I 
([ualihed.  When  my  aunt  turns  me  from  her  doors  I  wiil  go 
direct  to  New  York— to  some  theatre  there — an  obscure  one, 
I  fear,  it  must  be  at  first — and  in  that  great  city,  in  die  theatii.  ai 
profession,  make  my  living.  1  can  dance,  1  can  sing.  1  have 
l)erfect  health,  my  share  of  good  looks,  and  no  end  to  what  our 
cousins  across  the  border  call  'cheek.'  I  shall  succeed— it  is 
only  a  ([uestion  of  time.  And  wi)en  I  am  a  rich  and  popular 
actress,  Mademoiselle  Stei)hanie,  I  shall  one  day  leiurn  here  and 
thank  you  for  having  turned  me  out !  " 


i«)    * 


papa 
1  will 


After 


fo 


f 


. 


t\ 


'  A    TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOT." 


79 


For  a  moment  mademoiselle  stood  speechless,  rooted  to  the 
proiind  by  ilie  matchless  audacity  of  this  reply,  and  once  more 
Cyiilia's  gravity  nearly  gave  way  as  she  looked  in  iier  fac-. 
Then,  without  a  word,  with  horror  in  her  eyes,  she  hastily  walked 
out  of  the  room,  locking  the  door  after  her,  and  stood  panting 
on  the  other  side. 

"  I  nnist  speak  to  Jeanne,"  she  gasped.  '« Oh,  mon  Dieu  I 
who  would  dream  of  the  evil  spirit  that  jwssesses  tiiat  child  ?  " 

IJreakfast  was  brought  to  Miss  Hendrick  in  the  solitude  of 
her  prison  by  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  herself,  wiio  also  made  a 
lire.  Miss  Hendrick  jjartook  of  that  meal  with  the  excellent 
appetite  of  a  hearty  school-girl.  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  eyeing 
her  in  terror  and  askance. 

How  the  matter  leaked  out  it  seemed  impossible  to  tell,  but 
leak  out  it  did  ;  periiaps  IVfiss  Jones's  exultaion  over  her 
enemy's  downfall  got  the  better  of  her  discretion,  but  as  the 
four  and  thirty  boarders  sat  down  to  their  matutinal  coffee  and 
'' pisfolfts"  it  was  darkly  whispered  about  that  some  direful  fate 
had  befallen  Cyrilla  Hendrick.  In  tiie  darkness  of  the  night 
she  had  committed  some  fearful  misdemeanor,  some  "deed 
without  a  name,"  and  was  under  lock  and  key  down  in  Ma- 
demoiselle Stephanie's  chamber. 

Salurday  in  the  school  was  a  half-holiday.  In  the  forenoon 
the  girls  wrote  German  exercises  and  looked  over  Monday's 
lessons.  All  morning  the  shadow  of  mystery  and  suspicion  imng 
over  the  class-room— girls  whispered  surreptitiously  behind  big 
books.  What  had  Cy  Hendrick  done  ?  What  was  to  be  her 
punishment?  Four  and  thirty  young  ladies  were  on  the  qiuvive, 
some  secretly  rejoicing,  some  simply  curious,  two  or  three 
slightly  regretful— for  Miss  Hendrick  was  by  no  means  popular 
— and  one,  one  only,  really  sorry  and  anxious — Sydney  Owen- 
son. 

"  What  on  earth  can  Cy  have  done  ?"  Sydney  thought,  per- 
l)lexediy.  "  We  i)arted  all  right  last  evening,  and  this  morning 
we  wake  and  fmd  her  imprisoned  and  disgraced  for  the  first 
time  in  th-ee  years.  I  wish  I  understooil.  Miss  Jones  looks 
compenuiums— x/tt-  knows.      I'll  ask  her  after  class." 

Lessons  and  exercises  ended.  At  twelve  the  welcome  bell 
rang  announcing  that  studies  were  over  for  the  week,  and  the 
students  free  to  rush  out  pellmell  and  make  day  hideous  with 
men-  uproar.  Sydney  alone  lingered,  going  up  'to  Miss  Jones, 
whose  duty  it  was  to  remain  behind,  overlook  desks,  and  pul 
the  class-room  generally  in  order. 


8o 


**A    TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOT." 


% 


Jones,"    she    asked,    "what    has  Cyiilla   Hendrick 


".Miss 
dune?" 

If  Miss  Jones  hnd  a  friend  in  all  (he  schco),  .hat  friend  was 
A    .'>s(hvens(„i       M.ss  Ovvenson,  besides  being  an   heiress,  bc^ 

ol  e  hal[-du/en  pupils  to.i^ether,  was  so  sweet  of  ten.per,  so 
CO  Mteous  of  manner,  so  knully  of  heart,  so  gentle  of  tongue  so 
r.raeefully  and  proniptly  obedient,  that  she  won   hearts  as  bv 

r!^v'fntl^"T''-rT.''''^''^''y  ^^  character  ,nade  her  ever 
u  y  to  take  the  s,de  of  the  weaker  and  the  oppressed.  M  iss 
Jones  owed  her  deliverance  from  many  a  small  tyranny  to  Syd- 
ney Ovvenson'splea<hng.  Now  Miss  Jones  pursed  up  her  hps, 
and  her  eyes  snapped  maliciously.  ^ 

;;  VVho  says  Miss  Hendrick  has  done  anything?"  she  asked. 
Oh,  nonsense  !     We  all  know  she  has,  ancf  that  she  is  in 
pumshment    down    in    Maden,oiselle  Stephanie's  rolf   'To" 
^'k^n'ab^;^'"^  "' ''"  ^^^  '"  "'°'^^-  ^^^^''  ^li- J--S,  what 
"1  regret  that  it   is  impossible  for  me  to  inform  you,  Miss 
Owenson.     Any  conhdence  Mademoiselle  Stephanie  may    .uo^ 
m  me  I  consider  inviolable.      My  lips  are  sealed  " 
Sydney  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  turned  away 
'  1  shall  hnd  out  for  all  that.     It  is   very  odd,  I   must   say 
lust'ni^U  ?  "   ^'  ^'"'  '"'"'  ''"^  ''■""''•"  after  gomg  to  her  room 

She  nan  down  stairs  and  straight  to  the  r/,am/.r,  d  caur/i,r  of 
Mile.  Stephanie.     She  would  hnd  the  door  Rocked,  no  doubt 
bi.t ^at  least  she  could  talk  through  the  key-hole.     She"  rl;;S 

and^peakto^;;;."^"'"'^''''''^"'^"^""^^'  " '^^"^'^  '^  ^'--'-^ 
"  Come  in   Syd,"  the  clear  voice  of  Cyrilla  answered.     "  The 

door  IS  unlocked       Full  the  l>obbin  and  the  latch  will  go  up  ' ' 
Sydney  opened  the  door  and  entered.     At  the  win.loJ  Cy- 

Pnn-     y-v-^    ^^^^  '''''■"''"^'  '^^^  ^''^"'"g  '^^'^  of  fiction, 
»-e  i>iuns  IclciHaqnc,  ' 

i>hn/ent ''>s!.r  ''"'l  ^T^"'}}''  \   ^  thought  you  were  in  pun. 

i>nnn  nt  ;     Sydney  said,  bewildered. 

noor^htH/vi'ri^^'-'''V''l'''''"''''  l^^"-^''"^^  '  "  but  I  so  flustered 
poor  little  iVademoiselle  Jeanne  when  she  brought  me  mv  breik 

fast  by  niv  dreadful  talk  about  bein-  an   ictro  ••         r    1  \ 

,,,,,  I  ;n    V     .         II.  --'"'-  •■"='"{,  -m  <\ciren3,  ihat  she  wont 

out    all  ofa    remble,'  as  the  old  ladies  say,  and  forgot  to  lock 
the  door.     AlUe.  Stephanie  1  haven't  seen  since  she  got  nj)  th» 


I 


'■A    TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOTS 


81 


morning, 


loor 


I  daresay  she  has  improved  the  raining  hours  i\i  com- 
posing  a  letter  to  Aunt  Phil,  painting  my  guilt  as  blackly  as  the 
best  black  ink  will  do  it.  She  will  have  a  tit  if  she  finds  you 
here  in  my  company— the  whitest  of  all  her  lambs  side  by  side 
with  her  one  black  sheep.' 

"  Nonsense,  Cy.     \Vhat  on  earth  have  you  done  ?" 
"  Has  it  leaked  out,  then  ?  '  111  news  Hies  apace.'     Has  Miss 
Jones  told  ?  " 

"  Ah,  Afiss  Jones  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  mischief.  My  pro- 
])hftic  soul  told  me  so,  she  looked  so  quietly  exultant.  You 
didn't  try  to  murder  her  last  night  in  her  sleep  I  hope,  Cyrilla." 

"  Not  exactly.      If  ever  1  get  a  chance  I  will,  though.     J  owe 
Miss  Jones  a  long  debt   of  small  spites,   and  if  ever  I  get   a 
chance   I'll  pay  it  off.     VV^hat  did  I  do?     Why,  I  stole  out  of 
my  room  last  night  at  midnighi  to  meet  Fred  Carew  " 
"  Cyrilla  !  "     Cyrilla  laughed. 

"  My  dear  Syd,  if  I  had  assassinated  ATiss  Jones  last  night  in 
her  vestal  slumber  you  couldn't  look  more  horror-stricken! 
Is  It  such  an  awful  crime,  then  ?  My  moral  perceptions  must  be 
blunt— for  the  life  of  me  I  can't  see  the  enormity  of  it  I  00k 
hen;,  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it." 

And  then  Mi^s  Hendrick,  with  the  utmost  sam^  froi,f,  iwured 
into  Miss  Owenson's  ear  the  tale  of  last  night's  misdoing. 

"  it  the  man  had  been  any  other  man  on  earth  than  iioor 
JM-etldy,"  pursued  Miss  Hendric  k,  "  the  matter  wouldn't  amount 
to  much  alter  all.  Kxpuision  from  school  1  don't  mind  a  pin's 
point.  Meave  at  Christmas  in  any  case,  and  a  shrill  scoldmir 
once  a  day  from  Aunt  I'hil  until  the  day  1  married  her  pet 
Scotchman  would  be  the  sole  penalty.  But  now  it  means  j  '^1 
Aunt  Phil  will  turn  me  out— oh,  yes,  she  will,  Syd,  as  surely  as 
we  boili  sit  here.  No  i)rosi)ective  fortune,  no  Mr.  McKeli)in  to 
make  me  the  happiest  of  women,  no  leading  (he  so<-iety  of 
Montreal,  no  thrtation  with  Freddy,  nothing  but  go  forth,  like 
Jack  in  the  fairy  tales,  and  seek  mv  fortune.  Jack  always 
lound  his  fortune,  however,  and  so  shall  1." 

"P.ut,  Cyrilla,  good  gracious!  this  is  awful.  Do  you  mean 
to  say  your  aunt  will  really  turn  you  out  ?  ' 

"  Really,  Syd,  really— really.  And,  after  all,  one  can't  much 
blame  her,  poor  old  soul.  Last  night  I  ra'her  dread-d  my  fate  • 
to-day  1  don't  seem  greatly  to  mind.  After  all.  if  the  worst 
cui.ies  to  the  worst,  I  can  always  make  my  own  livin-^  " 

''As  an  actress?  Never,  Cy.  If  the  worst  does  come,  vou 
shall  make  your  home  with  ine,  sooner  than  that.     Not  a  word, 


82 


"^    TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOT:' 


C}TiIIa,  I  insist  upon  it.     Oh,  darling,  think  how  nice  it  will  be, 
ini|)a  and  niainina,  and  Hcrtic  and  you,  all  in  the  same  house  !  " 
Cyrilia  laughed. 

"And  Bertie  wishing  me  at  Jericho  every  hour  of  the  day. 
And  papa  and  mamma,  pinks  of  propriety,  both  looking  at  me 
askance,  a  gnl  expelled  her  school  and  turned  out  doors  by  her 
aunt.  Oh,  no,  Syd  ;  you're  tiie  best  and  dearest  of  friends,  bu' 
your  scheme  won't  work.  1  shall  go  on  the  stage,  as  1  .say 
'i"he  dream  of  my  life  has  ever  been  to  be  a  popular  actress, 
and  the  hrst  time  you  and  JJertie  visit  New  York  you  will  come 
and  see  me  plav." 
"And  Freddy?  " 

"  When  I  am  rich  enough  I  shall  marry  Freddy.  Poor 
fellow  !  how  sorry  he  will  be  when  he  hears  this.  It  is  all  the 
fault  of  that  detestable  Mary  Jane  Jones.  If  she  had  not  in- 
terfered at  Mrs,  Delamere's,  he  would  have  said  all  he  had  to 
say  there,  and  no  more  about  it.     It  is  her  hour  of  triumifh 

now,  but  if  mine  ever  comes " 

"Enough  of  this,  young  ladies  !  "  interrupted  the  shrill  voice 
of  Mademoiselle  Stephanie,  entering  hastily.  "  I  have  over- 
heard every  word.  Mees  Owenson,\vhv  do  I  find  you  here  ?  " 
In  her  hand  Afademoiselle  Stephanie  held  a  letter  addressed 
m  most  legible  writing  to  Miss  Phillis  Dormer,  Montreal.  It 
was  CyiiUa's  sentence  of  doom.  Syilney  started  ui),  turnin<r 
pale  and  clasping  her  hands.  '^ 

"Oh,  mademoiselle,  pray— pray,  don't  send  that  letter.  You 
dont  know  how  her  aunt  hates  Mr.  Carew— how  implacable 
she  IS  when  offended.  You  will  ruin  all  Cyrilla's  prospects  for 
lite.  Jt  IS  her  first  ofience.  She  has  always  been  so  good— 
you  have  always  been  so  proud  of  her.  She  has  been  such  a 
credit  to  the  school.  And  she  will  never,  never,  never  do  so 
again.  Oh,  ma'amselle— dear,  kind  Ma'amselle  Stephanie! 
don  t  send  that  letter." 

Tears  stood  big  and  bright  in  Sydney's  beseeching  eyes,  as 
she  stood  witii  clasped,  pleading  hands  before  the  preceptress. 
'  Hush,  Sydney!"  CyriUa  interposed,  gently;  "it  is  of  no 
use.  Ma'amselle  has  heard  all  that  before." 
,  "  I  have  pleaded  for  Mees  Hend.ick,"  ma'amselle  said,  look- 
mg  troubled  ;  "  I  have  begged  the  good  aunt  to  forgive  her  this 
one  tune. 

Cyrilia  smiled — scrrnolv  reckless. 

"V(ni  don't  knoa  Miss  Dormer,  ma'amselle.     If  an  angel 
came  down  to  pL-.ul  l')r  me,  she  would  not  forgive  this.     Send 


'A    TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOT.'' 


^l 


Uv 


% 


your  letter— vvliat  docs  it  signify?  I  will  never  give  her  the 
chance  to  turn  me  out.  1  will  go  straight  from  this  school  to 
JNew  York. 

"You  hear  that,  ma'amselle  ? "  S3dney  cried.  "You  will 
drive  her  to  desperation.  Do  not— do  not  send  that  letter  i 
bhe  is  sorry— she  will  never  offend  again.  Oh,  ma'amselle  ' 
li^sten  to  me  \  am  going  away— you  always  said  you  liked  me' 
l.rant  me  then,  this  parting  favor.  It  is  the  lirst— it  will  be  the 
last  1  shall  ever  ask  !  " 

She  twined  her  pearl-white  arms  about  little  ma'amselle's 
saffron  neck  and  kissed  her.  And  wavering,  as  she  had  been 
since  morning,  ma'amselle's  resolution  wholly  gave  way  before 
that  caress.  She  kissed  Sydney's  sweet,  tear-wet  face,  and  then 
deliberately  tore  her  letter  througli  the  middle. 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  say,  petite.  Ah  !  le  Invi  Dieu  has  given 
you  so  good  a  heart.     Lor  your  sake,   and  if  Mees  Hendrick 

shall  end  he'i'e  ''  '"  '"'''"'''^  '''''  "'"'''""'''''  "*"  '"'''''''  '''*''  I^""'«hment 

Cyrilla  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief.  There  had  been  a  hard 
fight  for  It,  but  tile  day  was  won. 

"Thank  you,  mademoiselle,"  she  said.     "  I  promise  indeed 

you!  butTfeeuL'^^'^""^'  ^  °''^  '''''  '°  ^""^     ^  '^^""°'  ''^^"'^ 
Sydney  closed  her  lips  with  a  jubilant  little  kiss. 
"  AH  right,  Cy— never  mind  how  you  feel.     I  knew  ma'am- 
selle  was   too  good    to   do   it.     And  oh  !  ma'amselle,    please 
nake  Miss  Jones  hold  her  tongue.     She  hates  Cyrilla,  and  will 
Hurt  her  if  she  can." 

"  I  will  speak  to  Mees  Jones.     You  may  send  her  to  me  at 

M  ??«  T4      rr  rV"t^.  '^''''^''  '''"''  ^^*^  ^'^'^  '^'  ^'1-  ^^^^y  J^«t  time, 
Mees  Hendrick,  1  shall  ever  have  to  reprimand  you." 

laiHi     ^'""'^  ''"'''''''  ""'"^  departed.      Cyrilla  broke  into  a  soft 

si  n^^/j  ';  '"''r"  '''^"'^'  ''^''"'''  '"  y^"'  ^y'^-^  '^"t  1  have  the 
s  ongcst  internal  conviction  that  one  day  or  other  I  shall  gei 
into  some  horrible  scrape  through  Fred  Carew." 


m^m 


84 


THE   LA.T  NIGHT. 


CHAPTER  X. 


THE    LAS'l    NIGHT. 

[T  is  raining  still,  and  raining  heavily;  a  Novembei 
gale  surging  tiiroiigh  the  trees  of  the  play-ground, 
sending  the  ra;n  in  wild  white  sheets  before  it  No 
out  door  romp  for  the  Chateauroy  pensionnaires  to- 
day 1  hey  are  congregated  ni  the  bam,  a  large  and  lofty 
l.u.khng,  am  1"  K>rre  I'liennite  "  ,s  tun)ultuously  beginning  as 
hydney  and  Cyrilla  appear.  At  the  sight  of  the  latter,  a  wlmoi) 
of  surprise  goes  up,  and  Miss  Jones,  standing  absently  lookinl' 
out  at  the  storm,  turns  round,  and  sees  her  enemy— free 

She  stands  and  looks— unite  with  surprise.  'I'here  is  an 
audacious  smile,  as  usual,  on  Afiss  Hendrick's  dark  face  an 
audacious  laugh  lu  her  black  eyes.  She  (luits  Sydney  and  goes 
straight  up  to  Miss  Jones.  ^ 

"  Vou  are  to  go  to  Afadenioiselle  Stephanie's  room  at  once, 
Miss^ Jones,  she  says,  with  a  most  exasperating  smile  :  "  1  think 
slie  has  a  word  of  warning  for  )'c>ti." 

Miss  Jones  makes  no  retort,  for  the  excellent  reason  that  she 
has  none  ready.  There  is  a  pause  of  three  seconds,  perhaps, 
and  they  look  each  otiier  straigijt  in  the  eyes,  it  ts  to  be  a 
duel  a  /.y//^/-/  between  them  henceforth— and  lx)th  know  it 
Ihen,  still  ,n  silence,  Miss  Jones  turns,  quits  the  play-ground, 
and  reports  herself  at  headquarters.  *'  ' 

Cynlla  is  surrounded,  besieged  with  questions,  but  she 
Shakes  thein  off,  and  orders  them  imperiously  about  their 
business.  ^ 

Since  she  first  entered  the  school  she  has  l>een  (jueen-retrn  »nt 
--<iueen-regnant  she  will  be  to  the  end.  She  joins  as  noi^^lv  as 
the  smallest  girl  there  in  the  game,  her  piercingly  sweet  voi.c 
rising  m  the  monotonous  chant  high  above  all  the  rest.  So  Miss 
Jones  hnds  her  upon  her  return.  The  interview  with  mademoi- 
selle has  left  Miss  Jones  a  tride  paler  than  her  wont,  with  an-ev 
t  may  be,  but  she  says  not  a  w.jrd  as  she  returns  to  her  fonner 
occupation  of  ga/ing  out  at  the  rain. 

The  long,  wet  afternoon  passes,  night  comes,  pnd  all  retire 
^^^^^^xy  rnornuig  brcai^s,  stiii  wet  and  windy  ;  there  is  to  be  no 
churcn^gomg  greatly  to  the  disappoinLment  of  the  youn-  1  Hies 
instead,  nuuiemoiselle  reads  aloud  for  an  hour  some  liuok  of 


riinir 


II 


THE  LAST  NIGHT. 


^S 


sermons.  They  dine  at  three  instead  of  on..-,  a  hi-h  festival 
dinner  of  roast-beef  and  phun-puddin^^  Then  the  -'iris  are 
left  to  themselves,  to  wander  about  corridors  and  nassa-es. 
visit  each  others  rooms,  gossip,  write  letters,  or  read'  as  they 

It  is  Sydney  Ovvenson's  last  day.  To-n)onow  mornini?  she 
goes,  to  be  married  in  a  month.  Four  and  thirty  .n'rlish  basoms 
beat  with  envy  at  tiiat  thought !  It  it  like  a  faiiy^de  to  ttem 
m.tlung  of  the  kind  has  ever  transpired  before,  nothin-  else  is 
hough;  of,  or  talked  of,  all  day.  Sydney  movJs  abou?  a.  ong 
them.in  a  pretty  dress  of  silk,  the  famous  chain  and  locked 
around  her  neck,  her  engagement  ring  sparkling  on  her  fin-cr 
a  glistening  watch  at  her  girdle,  all  her  g.Wdent  feathery  curls 
faU.iig  over  her  shoulders-a  shining  vision.     One  by  one   she 

for  the  hist  tune  how  fond  she  is  of  them  all.  C\  rilla g(,es  with 
Ijcr;  and  so  the  desolate,  lead-colored  Sabbath  afterno<m 
deepens  into  night,  and  it  is  (p.ite  dark  when  Mademoiselle 
Jeanne  comes  up  and  says  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Delamere  have 
called,  and  are  in  the  parlor  waiting  to  see  her 

And,  "  Dut  n(),  mademoiselle,"    Afademoiselle  Jeanne  savs 
laying  a  restraining  hand  upon  Cyrilla's  arm,  »  Mees  Hendrick 
IS  not  to  accompany  you." 

Sy.lney  descends.  Firelight  and  lamplight  illumine  the  parlor 
and  dazzle  her  for  a  moment  coming  out  of  the  dusk.     .She 

Zf  r  if""''  rl^^'^'"%^^^>'^>"--»  ^^"*1  Mrs.  Delamere,  but  that 
n  ost  coo  ly  audacious  of  young  officers,  Mr.  l-rcd  Carew. 
Opposite  him,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  her  face  like  a  small 
chocolate  mask,  sits  Mademoiselle  Steplianie 

Sydiic-y  gives  a  lit",.  ,  ,sp,  a  little  laugh,  and  a  little  blush,  as 
sne  meets  his  eyes.  .  .  on  arises  Mrs.  Delamere  with  effusion, 
am    Miss  C  wenson   is  {oVX^A  to  her  brownsilk   bosom.     She 

t^  X  ""'V''^''  ^'?'''""''  ''^"^'  ^^'-  ^^'^^^  ^"^^1  sits  demurely 
down,  understanding  why  Madcmoiseile  ^c;,.x^c  had  put  u 
summary  stop  to  Cyrilla's  accompa'  ,-v-  her 

\.2^VuT'''"T\  ■'  ""'  '.^:^-  ^^'^-  "  '■'""^''-^  cl'^tts  with  her  in 
hu  kind,  motherly  way.  The  Colonel  I.,  ..„s  in  occasionallv  with 
^s  ponderous  laugh  and  Mr.  Carew  sits  and  smiles  upon  he'r,  and 
looks  hand.soine  and  well-dressed,  and  a.klresses  the  few  pleasant 
.'...<  iemaM.r,  nc  does  make  alniost  exciusiveiv  to  mademois  lie 
in  strong  suppressed  displeasure  mademoiselle  responds,  mono' 
.s>labic  responses,  and  then  the  call  is  over,  und  they  are  stand- 
'"g  up,  and  Mrs.  Delamere,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  is  kissing 


8r. 


'1*1 


*   'j 


h 


if 


77/A  L^IST  NIGHT. 


Sydney  good-by      Again  she  shakes  hands  with   the  Colonel 

!-i."^;;:i;iiy:w;;hi;Sd:isr"'^ 

insc^lent  h.s  c.  .mmg  here.     He  shall  be  admitted  n     more  '' 
o^X^^C^i'^-'-'-^^  ^-^  finds  Cynllal-;ienng 

" '' a  wo  Id  b""  n-,- "1  ""^  "^  '^'^'^^'  ^^^  '-•  -''  good-by.''  ''^" 
r.r.i  1  '"^''^  '^'  ^^^y  >vhat  piece  of  effrontery  Fred 

Carew  n-ould   not  be  capable  of.     Mademoiselle   Ste,  hanie's 
face  must  have  been  a  study."  -^i^^pnanit  s 

She  ^  l^r''.'  ^rt"  '^^- '""^  /  •"  '^*''  '^  "«^  ^«  ^'^  '-^""^ved  here  again 
glances"    '    ^   ''"""^    ^^"    "^^^'^^'^^    ^'-'^    -"^    tende'st* 
Cyrilla  reads  her  note,  her  face  softening,  her  eves  li-htinLr 

And  i^lf'l  ^"V;^''T^^  ^'^^--y^  turns  up  to  blip  vir  nous    ovny 
And    f  u    locsn  t,  why  seven-and-sixpence  a  day  will   b  n   d  i  fj 
bread  and  beefsteaks,  and  what  n.orL  do  we  uan^t        I      d      u,^ 
auh  w.ll  send  us  an  odd  M^y  now  and  then,  and  Mis       o      "r" 
"111  come  rc.nd  when  there's  no  help  for  it      Throw  ovct  the 

of^^  !s  he  nu'rev^irwtd ■-'"''  ''"^^'  ""'"''     ^"^'  ^'^  '^^ 

•  to  ;:!;^tLu:ki;;g  ^im  t:  "^^  ^  :m  t "'  '"7>  '^-^  '^  ^-•'- 

idiocy  to  marr>^he  s^^^^i^ubS^^lI^t  r^Ttl'^^ll^^i^^l^ilS 
your  lovjng  Mr.  Carew  and  uuarrying  Mr.  McKel,  n." 
"  No,  I  dare  sav  nor  "  (\..;\\^  „.,.-,.°„„    „..    ■        I  ,        , 

•       1  ,-       ""-■     'V''''^  ""=^Tci»,  cuiiniy  ;    *•  but  then  vmi 

t'l  TL"",  ^^"fl  ^T^^''  "1'  •"  the  lap  of  luxuV,  a  bloat^  aT 
tociat,  byd,  while  I  am  a  pauper,  and  have  been  from  toll.    If 


t 


II 


^M 


,. " 


t 


•'  TI/E  LAST  NIGHTS' 


87 


I  n.anicd  FrcMdy,  I  would  go  a  pauper  to  my  grave.     Tliere  is 

,  ;•  ^  ^v  .h-ycs,  syd.iey-with  all  ,ny  heart  I  wish  I 
ni.glU  marry  Fred  Carew,  but  1  can't,  ancl  there  the  natter 
ends  Don't  let  us  talk  about  it,  it  ah  ays  niakes  n  e  .mc " / 
n.nable  Let  us  talk  oi  you.  To  think  that  this  thne  o  mo  ' 
row  mghtyou  will  be  hundreds  of  miles  away -"  '" 

Th  .  S;'h';rceaSd''V'r'  '-^^'"  ''^'"  '""^'?  ^'""''^^  class.room. 

^^  ^'j^Iu'Klreds  of  miles  away  !  "  Sydney  echoes,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Vou   are  not  sorry,  Syd.     Honestly  now.     You   are   not 
sorry  to  quU  th.s   stupid,  humd.uu)  school,  these  no  svronT, 
mg  j^uls,  thedrudgery  of  endless  lessons,  for^iome  and ^eed       ' 
lici  i,e  V  aughan  and  bridal  blossoms  !     Don't  sav  vou  are   ft  ^ 
is  too  nmch  for  human  credulity  to  believe"       ^  ^  '        " 

"Sorry,  Cy  ?     Well,  no.     1  am  glad  to  go  home   dad  m  I,« 

" ''c:.iir .  ";"""^^'  ""\  '^^'^'•^'  "^  ---•  but  s'u&^ "' 

JUi  s.iU  that  good,  tender  heart  of  yours,  my  Sydney  has  a 
s(.f  spot  for  'Frerel'Hennite,'  and  die  IXmuo  sel  es  Q  ateu  ?^^^^ 
.nd  even  crusty  Miss  Jones.  It  speaks  well  for  ouf'^r  b^J 
IS  not  over-flatteruig  to  Mr.  Vaughan.     You  preacl/ed  of  love  n 

of'Iua^lJJJtJ^-hStftdlr;^'-  '  --^^'-^^^--I'es 
Iil<e  him  better  than  il^'nun  I  kto^ '' '  "'  '^"•"  ^"'  ^^"'"  ^    ^ 

s'vi'c'r  Mlf  H  ^^'l".^-l^«"'  /"any  ?     The  fat  old  colonel-one." 
said   Miss  Hendnck,  checking  them  off  on  her  fin-ers  •   "the 

nlai;.    /''"'T^"  '  ''"'^"  ^'^^    ^••^f^'^^'^'-    Cha,,s°al-thrie' 
vuK.able    Jean    Baptiste    Romain-four  :    your    nam     HvV 

lK^t  comprises  the  list,  does  ,t  not  ?     And  you    ke  h  n  lett^; 

tl' ;n  .>;;y  .nan  you  know.     Happy  Mr.  VaugZ     '     '"  '""'"^ 

HiU>  him  better  than  any  man  J  ever  saw  then  "  crie.  ^wl 

ney  del.antly,   -your   pretty  little  lover   incuded      And  .vi^.^" 

andmamnia  hke  him,  and  wish  me  to  m  "tv  hnn  •  ^"^J^!^? 


I 


88 


"ThE  LAST  AJGirr:^ 


salvatio/   for  some  man  who  takes  f  heir  fi.irv      i  i,n, 
yo..  arc  cynical  and  sarcastic  'ui  In-  rlytvril^  ?"","''''" 
Y;""'''  '.''"I'  »^:  it  <I"^-sn't   become  y,,^      /e  t  it   fnf  ^'"" 
^l'^a,,,,u.nte(l,  cn.sse.l  in-l„ve  Miss  Dorn   .r"  '''"'"'• 

"Uravo,  Svd?      WhoM  have  thou-ht  h' ?       r. 
Iiupcs  of  yon   vet      I  nnlu  t  ■  I  .  "   ""'  '   ^      ^  l>i-gin  to  have 

his  s^veet^I.le  v[fe  fr  ^'""'  ^\^'T  •"^>'  ''^"  ^^'"'^''y  *'f 

I'cUcr  than  yc!:-,  a^e  pretl;"  ''"  ''"  '  ''"'^"  J^'^^*-'''  Sy^Iney.^and 

;'Oh    nonsense,  Cy!     Drop  that." 
.       1  shall  nijss  you  horribly,  chaw bt'lL-  "  CvrlUn  ,  • 

""•sin.  Mr.  AicKcIp'in   Z  \C   .mu  to     "'  ^T  ^^■'"  '^•-  •"" 
n.entsMissO^venson   uravelv      -T  '"''^  '"'"'"  '^"I'I>1^ 

ilanfr,,o„s  sort  ot  ua  u     nH  . '  ^   ''  ?'''"'  ^>'''"^^  J  "'at's  a 

"I.Ule  croak  /i'^I;     ^  r  o^if'^M'^'K^  >'"'  '"  «-'•" 
And,  meantime,  if  yonr    n  fv-rh    \  'V'^*   •'^'•'^^' "'"  l'^'-'- 

A.Mit  Phil,  and  I'ets^Z  ci^    In  1    .r'u"  ^I'l'lnnrntic  note   to 

iice  Master  JJert.e    and  lu      '       '  J,  ^''all  'hast,  to  the  weddint;,' 

room,  talkm-  ea'awly  in  u  d.    m,    '  ''I'  "'^'  '""^^''  ^'"'l 

bell  for  evenin.r  ^  r  ^  s   r  T  ,  ^"  .^""^'^^'''  '^''^"' ''"'"•  "^e 

ti.cy  havehehis';;;in;r  i::':^^.r::,ir'^ '^^^'  '^-'^-^'  ^^'-- 
spc;:::^-.:^:'^:--:;^;;^^^^  -have 

octu-o^.f  tl)e  n..;?t     S)^  ;T  "":'*""«'  ^^"^'  ""- 

to  then-  roon,s,  and    i  :m:^^,d  dukiu- ■''    '    "T  '''  ''^''''-  ''''^^" 
-u,e   world  of  the  iH>a.^h,^H;:t:;;:':;;'t ":?-'-  '-'u- 

hopes  and  tears,  heart-burnings  and  passions  '""'^'  ''"'^^•'' 

school.     A  ''roumli^tll^L-'K     nSh^^  '"""^'^  "'' 

ino.selle  Steplianie,  and  vvas  .  aiue         •      L^"      '  '""'  '"  ^'^"'^'- 
ag.ihble  of  conversition  amUs   I  ^"^'^  l<'^i^t  ^vas  eaien  annM 

n^  t!n-ou.h  a!!   "^  Sne    co-  ch^r''"'  '"'"  ^''^  '^'^'^  ^'  ^'"''» 
messenger  ,br  Sydney ';:;;;^^s:^^ha J  co^:;:"*  "  '"  '^'^'■-     '''^ 


i# 


e  yoii  wlicn 
i  wish  you 
t  for  ])oor, 

;in  to  have 

worthy  of 

Yihwy,  and 


on,  plaint- 
ItMvcnccl 
then —  -• 
1,  an  1  her 

-;rc.     You 
ill  Iji-  pro 

i"    SU|)|)lc 

;  that's  a 
to  ^'ricf." 

:c'  of  hfe. 

c  note  to 

wedcHni,',' 
nuptials. 

J  go." 

>i)g,  chili 
hour  the 

^c,  wliere 

"  1  have 

It ;  most 
and  one 
e.  'Ihen 
lie  niini- 
d  luiiter 


"A  LAGG^IRD  IN  LOVE  " 


89 


1-^  wuit- 

.lorc 

lu  linir. 

,  !  f'ood- 


Rhe  u^is  dressed  in  her  travelling  suit,  a  pretty  "conserve  "  of 
ray  and  I,  ue,  w.ih  hat  and  gloves  to  n'.at'h.  Her  truTst..  cl 
IM.  ke  1  an.Utrapped  u,  the  hall.  Madeumiselle  S„  .  ,„ie  came 
luiself  reiMul(,us!v  to  bear  the  n.essage  that  Rebe,  < 
"ig,  and  that  Mi>  ivenson  must  say  goo.l-bv  at  on, 
was  no  tune  to  los.  -their        n  started  in  less  than  1,  . 

he    scene  tnat  ensued  1    ,iu>  may  tell?     "  (Jood     ..'.mod- 

fen  'sv  l'^'  ■     ''    ,"•  ^^r'*-' l>-»--  to  write  ../  /.y.../.."  ^^  d 

it^-    l7'      ■'"  ''■•'^f^'^*  '>'-•»  .<l"it-'  <lrenched  with  weepmgs 

i^lt  T"  ^"'■^'''"'  ''^''"  '"^^'"-^    tear  wet  face.     They  are 

.11    he  on    he  steps,  teachers,  pupils,  servants,  and,  foren-o.^ 
ll«c  tall,  t  ^  J  ^^^^^  ^^^^  of  Cyrilla  Hendrick. 

nev"""v;  s'h'^'7   ?"''  ^y/'  she  .sobs,  and   "(loodd.y,  Syd- 
"%Y       A.i.s  Hendnck  answers,  gravely,  but  with(,„t  teai>i 

lie    .>,utnt    Kiie  St.    Domun.iue,   and   the  /,  /<//  and   the 

l.rung  of  eager  faces  out  of  sight.  She  fallsba  ng       etlv 

1  '    before-  they  ar-  half  way  to  the  station  1  ..    a  e   1   S 

amUhe    ,s  l,stenn>g    eagerly  to  Rebecca's   .  nnu  indl  at 

The  station  is  reached— smiles  have  totally  routed  tears   the 

K^^S:r  ^'-r^'M'-/l^'icate  cheek^  iU.sh.    'Sold 

ew  on  .  k  h  r7  ^''  '^>'  "'^^  "^'^^'  ''  ''"''  dnll-and  the 

t  V  one  IS  begun       1  he  old  one  ended  in  darkness  and  rain 

lie  new  one   begms  m   sunshine   and  brightne.s«       It  is  en  1  !' 

nanc^  the  g.rl  tlunks,  and  she  gives  her  a.ga^emen    r  ng  a     w 

.  ing  to  i.crt>e,  to  her  bridegrooni-and  so  forgets  thc/amon. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


I1  frosty 
Jngh  the 
)  Made- 
^'H  amid 
a  thrill 
■•     Tlie 


i( 


A    LAGGARD    IN    LOVE 


pi.ARLOTTK  what  time  is  it?     If  it  ism  past  foui 
J    that  confounded  clock  nnisi  be  slow." 
^gj        Captain   Owenson— "  Sciuire    Ou,jn=n""  n-   h-  i- 
the  twent^;[r^-    '"^  "','"''!  '^7^^^°"'  ~''^'  ^^^^^^lucslion  U^ 
"cm  lull  sigii,  half  giuan,  in  Ins  b,g  invalid  chair.     And  Char. 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST    CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


lis 


A  I  2.8 

^  11111= 

ff    113.2 


IIM 
llllltf 


1.4 


II  2.5 
2.2 

2.0 


1.8 


1.6 


^     APPLIED  IM/IGE     I 


nc 


I55J   East   Mom   SIreti 

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9° 


*'A  LAGGARD  IN  LOVE." 


lotte,  otherwise  Mrs.  Owenson,  looks  up  from  lier  tatting,  and 
answers  i)laci(lly,  as  she  has  answered  placidly  also  twenty  times 
before  : 

"It  wants  twenty  minutes  of  four,  Reginald,  and  the  clock  is 
right  to  a  second." 

'^  Oh-h-h  !  "  says  the  Cai)tain.  It  is  a  Half  groan  of  pain,  half 
grunt  of  anger,  and  impatiently  the  invalid  flounces  over  on  the 
other  side,  and  shuts  his  eyes.  He  has  not  seen  his  Sydney, 
the  "  sole  daughter  of  his  house  and  heart,"  his  one  best 
treasure  in  life,  for  close  upon  a  year,  and  all  that  year  scarcely 
seems  as  long  to  his  intolerable  im[)atience,  as  do  die  hours  of 
this  lagging  day  that  is  to  bring  her  home.  At  no  period  of  his 
career  has  patience  been  the  virtue  upon  which  the  friends  of 
Reginald  Algernon  Owenson  have  placed  their  ho[)es  of  his 
canoni/ation,  and  years  of  ill-health  have  by  no  means  strength- 
ened it,  as  his  wife  knows  to  her  cost.  lie  is  a  tall,  gaunt 
man,  with  a  face  still  handsome  in  si)ite  of  its  haggardness, 
bright,  restless  eyes,  and  tliat  particularly  livid  look  tliat  organic 
heart  disease  gives.  The  large,  gray  eyes,  closed  so  wearily 
now,  are  the  counterpart  of  Sydney's,  and  the  abundant  and  un- 
silvered  hair  not  many  shades  darker. 

\W  tlie  lace-drai>ed  bay  window  of  this  her  husband's  invalid 
sitling-rocm  sits  Mrs.  Owenson,  serenely  doing  tatling.  A 
tall,  thin,  faded  lady,  with  i)ale  blue  eyes,  pale,  fairish  complex- 
ion, and  a  general  air  of  cheerful  insi[)i(lity.  In  early  youth 
Mrs.  Owenson  was  a  beauty — in  the  maturity  of  seven  and 
forty  years,  Mrs.  Owenson  fancies  herself  a  beauty  still. 

There  is  silence  in  the  room  for  a  few  minutes.  It  is  a  very 
large  and  airy  room,  furnished  with  tlie  taste  and  elegance  of 
culture  and  wealth.  There  are  ])ictures  on  the  walls,  busts  on 
brackets,  statuettes  in  corners,  bronzes  on  the  chimney-i)iece, 
books  and  llovyers  on  the  table,  and  over  all,  more  beautiful 
than  all,  the  crisp  golden  sunshine  of  the  November  afternoon. 
From  the  window  you  saw  a  lovely  view,  spreading  woodland 
all  glowing  with  the  rubies  and  orange  of  that  most  ex(juisite 
and  poetic  season  the  "Fall,"  emerald  slopes  of  sward,  and  far 
away  the  great  Atlantic  Ocean,  spreading  until  it  melted  into 
the  dazzling  blue  sky. 

The  minutes  drag  like  hours  to  the  nervously  irricable  man, 
who  bears  suffering  as  most  men  bear  it,  in  angry,  vehement 
protest.  A  brave  man  in  his  day  he  has  been,  but  brave  under 
ill-health,  slow,  cruel  pain,  he  is  not.  Placid  Mrs.  Owenson, 
who  sits,  seeing  nothing  of  the  gorgeous  picture   before   her, 


fi 


"A  LAGGARD  IN  LOVE:' 


91 


al 


whose  wliole  small  soul  is  absorbed  in  her  tatting,  who  jumps 
on  a  chair,  and  shrieks  at  sight  of  a  mouse,  would  have  borne 
it  all  with  the  i)athetic,  matter-of-course,  infinite  patience  of 
woman,  had  she  been  chosen  for  the  martyrdom. 

Presently  tlie  sick  man  opens  his  eyes,  bright  and  restless 
with  impatience. 

"  J'ertie  is  late,  too,"  he  growls;  "he  was  to  return  by  the 
two  o'clock  train.  A  pretty  thing  for  Sydney,  a  fine  com[)li- 
mcnt  indeed,  to  get  here  and  find  him  gallivanting  away  in  New 
York.  It  seems  to  me  he  does  nothing  but  gallivant  since  his 
return  from  England — returning  plucked  too  !  Young  dunder- 
head !  I  don't  like  it  !  I  won't  have  it !  He  shall  stay  quietly 
at  home  or  I  will  know  the  reason  why  ! " 

"  My  dear,"  says  Mrs.  Owenson,  calmly  measuring  off  her 
tatting,  "  you  mustn't  excite  yourself,  you  know.  Doctors 
Howard  and  Delaney  both  said  particularly  you  were  never,  on 
any  account,  to  excite  yourself" 

"Hang  Doctors  Howard  and  Delaney!  Don't  be  a  fool, 
Mrs.  Owenson  !  I'm  not  talking  of  those  two  licensed  quacks. 
I'm  talking  of  Bertie  Vaughan's  gallivanting,  and  I  say  it  shall 
end  or  I  will  know  the  reason  why." 

"Well,  now,"  says  Mrs.  Owenson,  more  placid  if  possible 
than  ever,  "  I  don't  believe  Bertie's  gallivanting,  whatever  that 
nuiy  be  ;  and  as  for  his  going  to  New  York  two  days  ago,  you 
know,  Reginald,  you  gave  him  permission  yourself.  Lord 
Dearborn  is  stopping  there  at  a  hotel,  before  going  to  shoot 
what-you-call-'ems — buffaloes — and  Bertie  and  he  were  bosom 
friends  at  college,  and  naturally  Bertie  w  '■  ted  to  see  him  before 
he  left.  And  you  told  him  yourself —  '  Reginald,  love,  you 
know  you  told  him  yourself,  to  invite  .lim  to  the  wedding, 
and " 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes,  yes  !  O  Lord !  7i>hat  a  thing  a  woman's 
tongue  is  !  Men  may  come  and  men  may  go,  but  it  goes  on 
forever.  Don't  I  know  all  that,  and  don't  I  know,  too,  that  he 
promised  faithfully  to  be  here  by  the  two  o'clock  tram,  in  time 
to  meet  Sydney.  And  now  it's  nearly  four.  People  who  won't 
keep  their  promises  in  little  things  won't  keep  tiiem  in  great. 
And  this  is  no  little  thing,  by  Oeorge  !  slighting  Sydney.  Isn't 
it  time  for  those  confounded  drops  yet,  Char?  Lay  down  that 
beastly  rubbish  you  are  wasting  time  over  and  attend  to  your 
duties'" 

Still  serene,  still  unruflled,  Mrs.  Owenson  obeys.  To  tell 
the  truth,  her  liege  lord's  ceaseless  grumbling  has  little  more 


92 


"A   LAGGAJ^D  IN  LOVE:' 


effect  upon  ber  W'jll-balanccd  mind  than  the  sighing  of  tlie  fitful 
wind  out  among  the  trees.  A  i)erfect  digestion,  an  unshatti'ied 
nervous  system,  an  unlimited  cai)ac.ity  for  sleep,  raise  Mrs. 
Owenson  superior  to  every  trial  of  lifi!, 

Siic  lays  down  the  obnoxious  rubbish,  pours  out  the  drops 
carefully  in  a  little  crystal  cup,  and  hands  it  to  her  husljaod. 
As  he  takes  it  the  shrill  shriek  of  the  locomotive,  rushing  into 
the  station  two  miles  distant,  rends  the  evening  air. 

"  Thank  Clod,  there's  the  train,"  he  says,  with  a  sort  of  gnsj) 
— "  Sydney's  train.  In  fifteen  minutes  my  (darling  will  be 
here." 

"And  1  will  go  and  see  about  dinner,  Reginald."  remarks 
Mrs.  Owenson,  settling  her  f^ap  with  a  ])lease(l  simper  at  her- 
self in  the  glass,  "  if  you  can  spare  me." 

"Spare  you!  \\'hat  the  devil  good  arc  yon  to  any  one, 
I  should  like  to  know  !  sitting  there  with  your  eternal  knit- 
tine " 

"  Not  knitting,  Reginald,  love,"  remo.istrates  Mrs.  Owenson, 
"  knittins^'s  old-fashioned.     TattiuLr." 

A  disgusted  growl  is  the  gentle  invalid's  answer.  He  closes 
his  eyes  and  falls  back  among  his  i)illows  once  more.  Always 
a  bit  of  a  martinet,  in  his  own  household  and  neighborhood,  as 
erstwhile  on  the  ([uarterdeck,  years  of  suffering  have  rendered 
him  irritable  and  savage  to  an  almo..t  unbearable  decree. 
Death  is  near,  he  knows,  hover'ng  outside  his  threshold  by  day 
and  by  night — may  cry  "  come  ! "  at  any  moment,  and  his  pas- 
sionate ])rotest  against  the  inexorable  decree  never  ceases. 
His  longing  for  life  is  almost  piteous  in  its  intensity — he  holds 
his  grasp  upon  it  as  by  a  hair,  and  each  outbreak  ot  anger  or 
excitement  may  snao  that  hair  in  twain. 

The  great  house  is  very  still  — the  sick-room  is  far  removed 
from  all  household  tumult.  It  is  a  great  house — "a  house 
upon  a  hill-top,"  a  huge  red  brick  structure,  with  acres  of  farm 
and  field,  of  orchard  and  kitchen  garden,  bells  of  lawn  and 
wooded  slopes.  It  st-'^'  "  •.  nearly  half- a- mile  from  any  otlier 
dwelling — a  whole  mile  .1  the  town  of  Wyckcliffe.  A  broad 
sweep  of  drive  leads  up  ^j  the  i)orlico  entrance  in  front,  slop, 
ing  away  in  the  rear  down  0  the  sea-shore.  Thcie  .ue  many 
great  men  in  the  smoky  manufacturing  town  of  W'yekclifte — as 
great  as  half  a  million  dollars  can  make  them,  but  ever  and 
alwa}s  Sijui'-e  Owenson,  i/ic  great  man  par  cxcclicnce.  He  is 
the  wealtbiiest,  he  lives  in  the  finest  house,  he  drives  the  finest 
horses,  he  owns  the  finest  farms,  he  keeps  the  largest  staff  of 


'A  L.IGGARD  IJV  LOVE." 


93 


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servants,  and  al)ove  all  he  has  the  air  of  one  born  and  bred  to 
command.  Loftily  i;racion.s  and  condescending,  he  has  walked 
his  ui)lifled  way  among  these  good  people,  and  the  rich,  slircwd 
manufacturers  submit  good-humorcdly  to  l)eing  patronized  and 
smile  in  their  sleeve  over  it.  "  A  tip-top  old  swell,"  is  the  uni- 
versal verdict,  "in  spite  of  his  IJriti.Th  airs,  free  with  his  money 
as  a  lord,  ready  to  help  any  one  in  distress,  and  a  credit  to  the 
town  every  way  you  taice  him."  A  haughty  old  sprig  of  gentil- 
ity this  Sfjuire  Owenson,  setting  a  much  greater  valuj  on  birth 
and  blood  than  either  of  these  useful  thinirs  are  entitled  to,  and 
lovmg,  with  a  love  great  and  all  absorbing,  his  slim,  pretty,  yel- 
low-haired "little  maid"  and  heiress.  The  one  desire  of  his 
heart,  when  lirst  he  settled  here,  had  been  to  found  a  house 
and  a  name,  that  would  become  a  power  in  the  land,  to  have 
"The  Place"  descend  from  Owenson  to  Owenson,  for  all  time, 
liut  Mrs.  Owenson,  who  disappointed  him  in  everything,  disap- 
liointed  him  in  this.  Six  babies  were  born,  and  with  the  usual 
perversity  of  her  contrary  sex,  each  of  these  babies  was  a  girl. 
To  make  matters  worse,  five  died  in  infancy,  and  Sydney, 
"  last,  brightest,  and  best,"  alone  shot  up  and  flourished.  Shot 
u[),  slender  and  pretty,  an  Owenson  her  fadier  rejoiced  to  see 
in  face  and  /.ature.  It  was  then  his  thoughts  turned  to  liertie 
Vaughan.  Since  Providence  deigned  him  no  son,  Pertie 
sliould  be  his  son,  si  ould  marry  Sydney,  should  change  his 
mine  to  Vaughan  Owenson,  and  so  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Owenson 
liand  down  "The  Place"  to  fame  and  posterity.  The  thought 
grew  with  every  year.  No  exception  coukl  be  taken  to  the 
or[)han  hid  <  n  the  score  of  birth,  and  for  his  ])overty  the  ca[)taiii 
did  not  cure — he  had  enough  for  both.  Yes,  yes  !  the  very  hour 
the  boy  and  girl  were  old  enough  they  should  be  married.  It 
was  the  one  h()i)e,  the  one  dream  of  his  life,  growing  stronger 
as  death  came  near.  Of  late  he  had  been  a  little  disappointed 
in  young  Vaughan.  He  had  returned  from  Cambridge 
"plucked,"  his  name  never  a[)[>eared  in  the  "University 
Kight ;  "  at  nothing,  cither  physical  or  mental,  so  far  as  the  old 
sailor  could  see,  had  he  distinguished  himself  He  was  without 
ballast,  without  "backbone,"  ami  never  had  Ca|)tain  Owenson 
sighed  so  bitterly  over  the  realization  as  on  his  last  return. 
Still,  all  things  cannot  be  as  we  would  have  them  here  below. 
He  woukl  love  Sy;lney  and  be  good  to  her,  he  coukl  hardly  fail 
HI  t/iat,  and  with  that  both  she  and  her  lather  uuist  fain  be  con- 
tent. 

"  We  can't  make  statesmen,  or  orators,  or  great  reformers  to 


1;, 


94 


'A  LAGGARD  IN  LOVE." 


I 


\i\ 


order,"  the  captain  thought.  "The  lad's  a  good  lad.  as  the 
class  go— lias  no  vice  in  liiin  that  I  can  see ;  will  make  a  re- 
spectable, easy-going  gentleman  farmer,  (luite  willing  to  be  tied 
to  Ills  wife's  apron-strings  all  his  life  ;  and  as  that's  the  sort  of 
nicn  women  like,  why,  1  dare  say,  it  will  be  all  the  better  for 
the  httle  one  that  he's  not  clever.  Yom-  clever  man  rarely 
makes  a  good  husband." 

He  lay  thinking  this  for  the  thousandth  time,  with  knitted 
brows  and  that  expression  of  repressed  pain  that  never  left  his 
face,  more  strongly  marked  than  ever. 

Twenty  minutes  had  ticked  off  on  the  clock,  the  yellow  lines  of 
the  slanting  afternoon  sun  were  glimmering  more  and  more 
faintly  through  the  brown  boles  of  the  trees,  when  carria-re 
wheels  came  rattling  loudly  np  the  drive.  He  started  upright 
in  his  seat,  a  red  ilush  lighting  his  haggard  tace,  his  heart  throb- 
bing like  a  sledge-hammer  against  his  side.  'I'here  was  the 
sound  of  a  sweet,  clear  girlish  voice  and  laugh,  then  a  footstep 
came  Hying  up  the  stairs,  the  door  was  Hung  wide,  and  fresh, 
and  fair  and  breezy,  his  darling  was  in  the  room,  her  arms  about 
his  neck,  her  kisses  raining  on  his  face. 

"  I'apa  !  papa  I  dear,  darling,  blessed  old  papa !  how  ^A-ad  I 
am  to  be  with  you  again  !  "  "^ 

He  could  not  speak  for  a  moment ;  he  could  only  hold  her  to 
him  hard  ;  gasping  with  that  convulsive  beating  of  the  heart. 
Hie  heavy,  labored  pulsations  frightened  Sydney;  she  drew  her- 
self away  and  looked  at  him. 

"  Pai)a.  how  your  heart  beats  !  Oh,  papa,  don't  say  you  are 
any  worse  I"  she  cried  out,  in  a  terrified  voice. 

"  No— darling,"  he  answered,  a  great  pant  bctvveen  every 
word;  "only— the  joy— of  your-coming— "  he  stopped  and 
pressed  his  hand  hard  over  the  suffocating  throbs.  '  Give  me 
— that — medicine,  Sydney." 

"I'll  do  It,  Sydney,"  her  mother  said,  coming  in.  "I  told 
you,  Reginald,  not  to  excite  yourself.  I'm  sure  you  knew  Syd. 
ney  was  coming,  and  there  was  no  need  to  get  into  a  gale  about 
It  like  this." 

The  squire's  answer  was  a  glare  of  impotent  fury  as  he  took 
the  cordial  from  the  exasperatingly  calm  partner  of  his  bosom. 
Sydney's  great  compassionate  eyes  were  fixed  ui)on  him  as  she 
nestled  close  to  his  shoulder,  one  arm  about  his  neck. 

"Lie  back,  i;ai)a,"  she  said,  "among  the  pillows.  I  am  sorry 
—-oh,  darling  papa !  sorrier  than  sorry— to  see  you  like  this. 
Now  let  me  fan  you.  Please  don't  excite  yourself  the  least 
bit  about  me,  or  I  shall  be  sorry  I  came." 


"A  LAGGAKD  IN  LOVE" 


95 


d.  n,s  the 
Kike  a  re- 
to  be  lied 
le  sort  of 
better  for 
an  rarely 

li  knitted 
er  left  his 

w  lines  of 
Lud  more 
carriage 
d  uprigiit 
irt  throb- 
was  the 
L  footstef) 
nd  fresli, 
nis  about 


w  glad  I 


)ld  her  to 

lie  heart. 
Irew  her- 

^  you  are 

jn  every 
i)ed  and 
Ciive  me 

"I  told 
lew  Syd- 
tie  about 

he  took 
>  bosom. 
1  as  she 

am  soiry 
ike  this, 
the  least 


'  Little  kisses,  light  as  thistle-down,  sorrowfully  tender  as  love 
could  nnke  them,  jjunctuated  tliis  speech.  The  father's  gaze 
dwelt  on  her,  as  men  (\o  ga/.e  upon  tlial  which  is  t!ie  apiile  of 
their  eye. 

"  I  am  better  now,  little  one.  Stand  off,  my  baby,  and  let 
me  look  at  you.  Cliarlotte,  look  here — Sydney  is  as  tall  as 
yourself." 

"  Sydney  takes  after  me  in  figure,"  says  Mrs.  Owenson,  with 
a  simper.  "  1  was  always  considered  a  very  fine  figure  when  a 
girl.  They  used  to  call  me  and  my  two  cousins,  Elizabeth  and 
Jane  T.ender,  the  Three  Graces.     It  runs  in  our  family." 

"Runs  in  your  fiddlesf'-.k  !"  growled  her  husband,  with 
ineffable  disgust.  "  Syc..iv._,  is  an  Owenson,  figure  and  face, 
wonderfully  grown  and  marvellously  improved.  Ah,  ]5ertie's 
going  to  get  a  golden  treasure,  that  I  foresee.  You  don't  ask 
after  your  sweetheart,  little  one,"  her  father  said,  pinching  lier 
car. 

"  My  sweetheart  ?  Oh,  how  droll,"  laughed  Sydney.  *'  Yes, 
to  be  sure,  where  is  IJertie  ?  1  ratlier  exi)ected  to  have  met 
him  at  the  station." 

"  And  you  ought  to  have  met  him  at  the  station,"  answered 
her  father,  his  frown  returning.  "  M'hatever  else  a  man  mav  be, 
he  slioukln't  be  laggard  in  love.  The  truth  is  he  lias  gone  to 
New  York  to  see  his  college  friend,  young  Lord  Dearborn,  and 
something  n)ust  have  detained  him.  However,  he  is  pretty  sure 
to  be  here  at  eight.  He  has  altered  as  much  as  you,  little  on  .>, 
and  grown  a  fine,  manly,  handsome  lad." 

"  liertie  wis  always  nice-looking,"  said  Sydney,  in  a  patroniz- 
ing, elder  sister  sort  of  tone;  "only  too  fair — I  don't  admire 
very  fair  men.  Mamma,  is  dinner  ready  ?  I'm  famishing  ;  and 
please,  mamma,  tell  Kaly  to  have  something  i)articulaily  nice, 
tor  life  has  been  sui)ported  on  thin  bread  and  butter  and  weak 
tea  for  the  jiast  three  years." 

She  ran  off  to  her  own  room  to  remove  her  hat,  and  mamma 
trotted  dutifully  away  to  see  after  the  commissariat.  Papa 
gazed  after  her  with  eyes  of  fond  delight. 

_  "  My  little  one,"  he  thought,  "  my  pretty  little  one,  sweet  and 
innocent,  an-'  heart  whole.  No  mawkish  blushing  or  sentimen- 
tality there,  liertie  was  always  nice-looking,  but  t'^oo  fair.  Ha  ! 
ha !  1  hop(;  she  will  take  your  conceit  down  a  pe^  or  two,  Mas- 
ter IL-rt." 

'I'he  dining  room  of  Owenson  Place  was  like  all  the  rooms, 
nearly  perfect  in  its  way,  hung  with  deep  crimson  and  gold 


96 


"A  LAGGARD  LV  LQFE," 


I 


V\t 


l^:. 


It 

i  \' 


pajier,  carpeted  wi.li  Axniinster  of  deep  crimson  anf''\voo(l  tints, 
curtained  with  red  satin  iirocatelie  and  lace.      Hand.juie  ciud- 
iiios  of  llcAvers  and  tVuit,  of  startled  deer,  and  forest  streams  covr 
cred  the  wall-,.      A    huge  sideboard  of  old  Spanish   mahogany 
covered  with  cK'sserl,  ocvr  lied  the  space  between  two  tali  win 
dows.     A    little   wood   fire    snapped    in    the  wide  steel  grate; 
under  the  big  glittering  chandelier  in  the  centre  of  the  dinner- 
table  was  set  a  huge  epergne  of  autumn  tlowers,  gorgeous  m  the 
centre.     And,  best  of  all,  there  were  raised  pies,  and  coUl  ham, 
and  broiled  partridge,  and  chicken  fricassee,  and  ruby  and  golden 
jellies,  and  fruits,  and  sweets.     Sydney's   eyes  sparkled  as  she 
looked.     It  sounds  imromantic,  but  at  the  age  of  seventeen  it  is 
a  matter  of  history  that  Miss   Owenson's    heart  was  very  easily 
reached  through  her  palate. 

"  \Ve  don't  have  regular  'dinners — roasts,  and  entrees  and  that, 
since  ISertie's  been  away,"  said  Mrs.  Owenson.  "  1  ordered  all 
the  things  you  used  to  like  best.  Tapa  never  comes  down  to 
dinner  when  we  are  alone." 

"Oh,  Jiow  nice,"  cried  Sydney;  "  how  good  it  seems  to  be 
home.  \Vhat  a  delicious  pie.  Nobody  makes  game  pies  like 
our  Katy,  bless  her  !  1  must  go  down  to  the  kitchen  directly 
and  give  her  a  hug.  U'on't  you  have  something,  mamma  ?  Oil, 
how  1  wish  Cyrilla  were  here." 

"Who's  Cyrilla,  my  love?"  asked  Mrs.  Owenson,  hel[)ing 
herself  to  partridge. 

Mrs.  Owenson  has  dined,  but  Mrs.  Owenson  is  one  of  those 
hapjjy  exceptional  mortals  who  can  eat  with  ease  and  comfort 
at  all  times  and  seasons. 

"My  chum  at  school,  Cyrilla  Hendrick.  Don't  you  remem- 
ber telling  me  in  your  letter  that  papa  said  I  might  invite  her 
here,  as  bridemaid.  I  have,  and  papa  must  write  to  her  aimt 
immediately— to  night  or  to-morrow.  1  wish  IJertie  were  here," 
runs  on  Miss  Owenson,  going  vigorously  into  the  raised  pie. 

"  I'm  dying  to  see  him.  Is  he  really  handsome,  mamma,  and 
elegant,  and  all  that?" 

"  Really  handsome,  my  dear,"  responded  mamma,  "  and 
w^j/ elegant.  His  clothes  fit  him  beautifully,  and  he's  jv  particu- 
lar about  his  finger-nails,  and  his  teeth,  and  his  studs,  and  his 
sleeve-buttons,  and  his  neckties,  and  his  perfumes.  And  he  bows 
magnificently.  And  he  parts  his  hair  down  the  middle.  And 
he  is  raising  a  small  moustache.  It  is  so  light  yet  you  can  barely 
see  it,  but  1  daresay  it  will  come  out  quite  [)lain  after  you  pre 
married.     And  he  is  going  to  ask  Lord  Dearborn  down  for  ttie 


'A  LAG  GAUD  IN  LOVE:' 


97 


and 


wedding,  which  will  give  everything  an  aristocratic  air,  you 
know.  And,  oh,  S)cluey,  my  love  !  all  your  things  have  come, 
and  you  mu;U  go  and  see  them  as  soon  as  you  have  dined.  The 
biidal-dress,  vail,  wiralli,  and  pearls  are  expected  from  Paris  in 
the  steamer  next  week.  They  have  cost  a  liltle  ibrtune,  and 
will  be  really  s[jlendid.  And  papa  has  fitted  up  three  rooms 
for  you  and  Hertie,  alter  yt)U  n-'urn  from  your  wedding  trip,  and 
they  are  s[)lendid  also.  Your  i)apa  may  be  fiactious,  Sycluey, 
but  I  must  say  he  has  s!)ared  no  exi)ense  in  this.  There  never 
was  a  wedding  like  it  in  VV'yckcliffe,  and  1  don't  believe  ever 
will  be  again.  The  papers  will  be  full  of  it,  you  may 
depend." 

"  Dear,  generous  papa  !  "  Sydney  exclaimed.  *'  Mamma,  you 
don't  think  him  worse,  do  you — not  really  worse?  His  heart 
beats  frightfully,  but " 

"That  was  the  excitement,  my  dear.  He  will  excite  him- 
self over  trilles,  do  as  you  may,"  answers  placid  manuna. 

"  J5ut  he  is  not  worse  ?  The  doctors  don't  say  he  is  worse, 
do  they  ?  " 

"  r>y  no  means.  He  only  fancies  he  is.  They  tell  him  to 
avoid  excitement,  to  go  on  with  the  dr()[)s  as  before,  to  take 
gentle  carriage  exercise,  light  diet  and  wines,  and  he  may 
linger  ever  so  long.  Now,  have  you  finished,  my  dear?  because 
1  do  want  to  show  you  the  things." 

Sydney  had  fuiished,  and  i)utiing  her  arm  around  mamma's 
waist  lamiliarly,  went  with  her  up-stairs.  'J'lie  bridal  apartments 
were  lu'st  shown — .itting-room,  beilroom,  dressing  room,  all  in 
different  colors,  all  of  different  degrees  of  sumptuousness. 
Pretty  ])ictures,  gilded  books,  stands  of  music,  a  new  jMano  and 
work-table,  knick-knacks,  pretty  trilles,  costing  hundreds  of 
dollars,  and  making  an  elegant  whole.  Everything  was  the  best 
and  rarest  money  could  buy. 

Sydney  went  into  raptures — school-girl  raptures;  but  her 
color  cauie  and  went,  for  the  tirst  time.  For  the  first  time,  she 
was  beginning  to  reali/e  that  she  was  really  going  to  be  married. 
'J'he  trousseau  was  displayed  next.  Dresses  of  silk,  black,  brown, 
blue,  pink,  white,  all  the  -  Jors  that  blonde  girls  can  wear: 
dresses  of  lace,  black  and  v»  u'  j  ;  dresses  of  materials  thick  and 
thin--all  beautifully  made  anc  trimmed.  Then  heaps  of  linen, 
rulticd,  laced,  embroidered,  marked  with  the  letters  "  S.  V.  O." 
l\vi.-.njd  in  a  monogram — Sydney  V'aughan  Owenson, 

Chadiially,  as  she  examined  and  admired,  silence  iell  upon 
her.     She  was  b.vjnning  to  feel  overpowered ;  her  life  of  the 
5 


t'l 


98 


"^  LAGGARD  IN  LOVE" 


\{     r 


iti; 


i«i  51 


r 


I;    ;, 


11 
(I 


jiast  luul  present  scL'iiicd  closing  forever,  ami  another,  of  which 
sh'i  knew  nothing,  about  to  begin. 

A  seiisation,  akin  to  (head  of  meeting  I'ertie  Vanghan,  was 
inexplicably  steaUng  over  her.  She  shook  it  off  inclignantly. 
AViiat  nonsense  !  Afraid  to  meet  JJertie  !  Hertie  witii  wiiom 
she  had  quarrelled  and  made  up,  whose  ears  she  had  boxed 
scores  of  times,  whom  she  had  laughed  at  and  made  fun  of  for 
his  incipient  young-mannish  airs  years  ag(j — afraid  of  //////  /  It 
was  all  very  line,  and  must  have  cost  oceans  of  money,  still  she 
was  glad  when  the  sight-seeing  was  over  and  she  could  nestle  up 
to  her  father's  side  anil  kiss  liim  a  httle,  silent,  grateful  kiss  of 
thanks. 

"How  do  you  like  it  all,  Mrs.  Vanghan  Owenson  ? "  he 
asked,  patting  the  cheek,  from  which  the  eager  Hush  had  faded. 

"  Jt  is  all  Ujvely — lovely.  Papa,  how  good  you  are  to  llertie 
and  me  I " 

"  You  are  all  I  have  to  be  good  to,  child,"  he  ansrt-ered,  sadly. 
"  Let  me  make  yon  happj- — 1  ask  no  moie.     You  think  you  will 
be  happy  with  our  boy,  (lon't  you,  pellie?" 
1  like  IJcrlie  very  much,  p;\pa." 

In  a  sisterly  way— eh,  my  dear?  Well,  that  is  a  very  good 
Avay— much  the  better  way,  in  a  little  girl  of  seventeen.  This 
time  next  year  he  will  be  something  n.cre  than  abrother  to  you. 
He  will  be  very  good  to  you,  that  1  know." 

"It  is  not  in  JJertie  to  be  bad  to  any  one,  [)apa.  lie  always 
had  a  gentle  heart." 

_  "Yes,  my  dear,  I  think  he  had.  There  maybe  nobler  (|uali- 
ties  than  gentleness  and  softness,  but  we  don't  make  ourselves, 
and,  as  young  fellows  go,  IJertie  is  a  harmless  lad,  a  very  harm- 
less lad.  ]5e  a  good  wife,  S3-dney,  and  don't  be  too  exacting- 
men  are  mortal,  my  dear— the  best  of  'em  7'ery  mortal,  lie 
happy  yourself,  and  make  your  husband  happy — it  is  all  J 
ask  on  earth." 

"I'll  try,  papa,"  Sydney  sighs,  in  a  weary  way,  leanin'^ 
against  his  chair,  "  but " 

"But  1  wish  I  need  not  be  married  at  all.  I  wish  I  might 
just  live  on  as  I  used,  with  you  and  mamma,  and  have  Ik'nic 
for  my  brother.  It  is  very  tiresome  and.  slui)id  being  married, 
whether  one  will  or  no,  at  seventeen." 

Ihal  is  what  she  would  have  liked  to  sav,  but  an  instinctive 
roi.viction  that  it  would  displease  her  tathJr  held  her  silent 

'■  but  what,  little  one  ?"  he  asks. 


"iXothin 


pajia. 


m 


**A  LAGGAKD  IN  LOVE.'' 


99 


Th(.'re  is  silence  t^^r  awhile.  Tlic  gray,  cold  cvcniiKjf  is  falling; 
over  wood  and  ocean  :  a  star  or  two  glitters  in  the  sky.  Hotli 
sit  and  look  at  the  tremulous  beauty  ot'  these  frosty  stars.  Sud- 
denly Sydney  springs  to  her  feet. 

"  J'.i[)a,  I  would  Hke  to  go  and  see  Hetty.     May  1  ?" 

Hetty  was  once  Sydney's  nurse,  very  nuich  tyrannized  over, 
and  very  dearly  lovcil.  Hetty  was  married  now  and  living  in 
tile  subiuhs  of  the  town. 

i'apa  glances  at  the  clock.  It  is  close  upon  seven,  drawing 
near  the  time  when  Master  Hertie  may  be  looked  for,  and  it 
will  do  him  no  harm  to  t'md  Miss  Owenson  has  not  thought  it 
worm  her  while  to  wait  for  him.  So  he  gives  a  cheerful  and 
immediate  assent. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear.  Hetty  is  a  good  creature,  a  very  g(wd 
creature,  and  strongly  aitached  to  us  all.  Take  I'lUen  or  Katy, 
or  drive  over  if  you  like,  or  I'erkins,  the  coachman,  will  attend 
you,  or " 

'*  Oh,  dear,  no,  papa  !  "  laughs  Sydney.  "  I  don't  want  any  of 
them.  As  if  one  needed  an  escort  running  over  to  the  town  ! 
Dcsides,  I've  been  watched  and  looked  after  so  long  that  a 
scamper  for  once  on  my  own  account  will  be  delightful. 
May  I  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  dark  in  ten  minutes,  Syd.' 

"  I  will  be  at  Hetty's  in  ten  minutes,  and  she  will  come  back 
with  me  if  I  want  her.     P — please,  pa|)a,  may  I  ?" 

"  WHiy  do  you  say  '  may  I,'  you  witch  ?  You  know  you  can 
do  as  you  like  with  me.  Run  away.  VVraj)  up,  the  evenings 
are  chiHy ;  and  don't  stay  more  than  an  hour." 

"  Not  a  second,     (lood-by,  papa  ;  aii  revoir." 

She  ran  up  t )  her  room,  tied  her  dainty  travelling  hat  over 
her  sunny  curls,  threw  a  new  and  brillant  scarlet  mantle  over 
her  shoulders,  and  in  the  steel-white,  steel-cold  set  off  for  her 
walk. 


100     ** ALLAiV.A-DALE   TO  IIIS   WOOING  HAS  COME!' 


CliAI'II'lK  xir. 

"  ALLAN-A-DAI,K   TO    HIS    WOOIXO    HAS    COMK." 


III! 


I  t 


|I'"r'riK,  otherwise  Mrs.  Simpson,  lived,  as  has  beep, 
said,  on  the  ontskirts  of  the  sliag^ding  town  of  Wyck 
clilt'e,  about  three-(inartc  is  of  a  mile  from  the  gates  of 
Owenson  l'laf;e,  siijtposing  you  took  the  high  road. 
Sui)posing  you  took  instead  the  shoil  cut,  skirting  the  sea-side, 
you  shortened  the  distance  by  half.  lU)''^  were  perfectly  fa- 
miliar to  Miss  Owenson,  botii  perfectly  safe,  aiul  without  delibe- 
rating about  it,  she  at  once  struck  iiuo  the  "  short  cut,"  running 
along  the  high  rocky  ledge  skirting  the  sea. 

It  was  a  rough,  rock-bound  coast,  the  steep  rocks  beetling 
up  in  some  phux'S  almost  perpendicularly,  from  fifty  to  two 
hundred  feet.  The  steep  sides  were  overgrown  witii  stunted 
si)nice,  reedy  grasses,  and  wild,  Hame-colored  blossoms  waved 
in  the  salt  wind.  A  wide  belt  of  yellow  sand  was  left  bare  at 
low  tide  ;  at  high  tide  the  big  booming  waves  washed  the  clilfs 
for  yards  up.  In  wild  weather  the  thunder  of  these  huge  Atlan- 
tic billows  could  be  heard  like  dull  cannonading  to  the  nirthest 
end  of  the  town.  It  was  a  lonesome  i)ath,  but  one  that  always 
had  a  fa..cination  for  Sydney,  as  far  back  as  she  could  remem- 
ber. 'Jo  lean  over  the  steep  to|)  of  "  \Vitch  Rock,"  the  highest 
point  of  all  these  high  crags,  and  look  sheer  down,  two  hundred 
feet  into  the  seething  waters  beneath,  had  ever  been  her  dan- 
gerous delight.  She  walked  along  now,  rather  slowly  and 
soberly  at  first,  thinking  in  her  childish  way,  how  prosy  and 
humdrum  it  was  to  be  married  in  this  'manner,  the  very 
moment  one  left  school.  All  the  married  ladies  .she  had  ever 
known  were  staid  and  grave  "house-mothers,"  not  a  frisky 
matron  among  them  all.  Was  she  expected  to  be  a  solenni 
and  steady-going  house-mother  too?  It  was  a  little  too  bad  of 
papa  she  thought,  with  a  reproachful  sigh.  If  he  had  only  let 
her  have  a  good  time  first,  for  three  years  at  least — twenty- 
is  old,  but  it  is  not  too  old,  after  all,  to  be  married.  She 
niight  have  come  out,  had  a  winter  in  New  York,  another  in 
Washington,  a  trip  to  Juirope,  and  a  couple  of  seasons  at  Sara- 
toga and  New[)nrt.  lint  of  course  poor  sick  j-apa  must  be 
obeyed ;  so  with  another  heavy  sigh  the  little  bride-elect  put 
aside  her  grievance,  and  wondered  where   iJertie  might  be  at 


f 


** ALI.AM-A-DALE    TO  Ills   lyOOlA'G  HAS  COME.**      lOl 

tlint  particiihir  nioim'tit,  and  wlictlicr  he  really  voiild  be  at 
home  to  ni-ht  at  all.  It  was  satisfactory-- verv  satisfactory, 
Miss  Owcnson  imiscd  gravely,  that  licwas'.so  nicL'-h  okiiig,  and 
was  a  "clothes-wearinj,'  man',"  and  was  fastidious,  as  nianuna 
liad  said,  about  his  n;iils,  and  teeth  and  sleeve  buttons.  Limi- 
ted as  her  knowledge  of  the  nobler  sex  had  been  she  had 
known  gentkinen— Colonel  Delaniere  and  sundry  oflkers  of 
his  staff  notably  among  the  number — who  were  not. 

Miss  Owenson,  nuising  thus  over  the  ser\)Us  tilings  of  this 
very  serious  life,  continued  her  way,  as  you  have  been  told,  at 
first  slowly  and  soberly,  but  accelerating  her  i>ace  gradually, 
and  brightening  up.  It  was  so  good  to  be  at  h.ome,  to  be  free 
fronj  school  discipline  ;  now  and  forever  done  with  lessons  and 
lectures.  It  was  such  an  exhilarating  night  too.  The  stars 
si)arkled  lirilliant  and  numberless.  There  was  no  moon,  but  a 
steely  radiance  shimmered  over  everything.  Down  below  iho 
prutty  bal)y  waves  luj^ped  the  ribbed  sand,  and  the  great  ocean 
melted  blackly  away  into  the  sky.  She  paused,  U-aning  over 
U'Uch  Cliff,  and  ga/ing  witli  liiscinated  eyes  at  that  illiniitable 
stretch  of  black  water.  She  was  still  lingering  there,  when  there 
came  to  her  voices  and  footsteps  on  the  high  road  beyond.  She 
glanced  carelessly  over  her  shoulder — carelessly  at  Hrst  ;  then 
she  started  swiftly  upright,  and  looked  at  the  two  advancing, 
with  keen,  surprised  interest.  A  man  i\  <[  a  woman,  both  young, 
g(Mng  toward  the  town,  the  woman  an  utter  stranger,  but  the 
man— surely  the  nian  looked  like  liertie  Vaugluin. 

She  caught  her  breath.  Could  it  be  IJertie.  It  was  his 
height,  his  walk,  his  general  air  and  look.  His  hat  was  pulled 
over  his  eyes,  and  in  that  light,  and  at  that  distance,  she  could 
not  (hscern  Ins  face.  His  Head  was  bent  slightly  forward, 
moodily  as  it  seemed,  and  he  traced  figures  in  the  dust  with  his 
cane  as  he  walked.  His  companioir,  a  small,  stylish-looking 
)oung  lady,  \M<h  a  ringing  voice  and  laugh,  was  rallying  him  as 
she  leaned  upo'    his  arm. 

"'i'hal'sall  very  fine,"  Sydney  heard  her  say.  "  Very  easy 
for  you  to  tell  me  you  only  went  to  see  a  friend  ;  but  how  am  I 
lo  be  sure  it's  true  ?  J  know  you  men— deceitful  every  one  of 
y(ni.      How  am  I  to  tell  you   hadn't  a  ilirtation  on   hand  up 

tiiere  ?     Only,  if  you  have " 

The  man  raised  his  head  .and  answered  her,  but  in  too  sub- 
clued  a  tone  for  that  answer  to  be  audible,  it  was  the  refined, 
the  educated  tone  of  a  gentleman,  and  markedly  different  from 
hers.  "^ 


' !!' 


lo: 


*'  ALLAA'-A-DALE    TO  IIIS    IVOO/A^G  HAS    COME." 


Slie  laiigliod  again  at  liis  reply,  whatever  it  was,  and  began  to 
sing,  in  a  low,  mellow  vnjice  : 

«'  It  is  go(xl  to  be  merry  ami  wise, 
It  is  good  to  he  loyal  and  true, 
It  is  i^ood  to  be  oft"  with  the  old  love 
Ik'fore  you  are  on  with  the  new." 

The  last  words  were  faint  in  the  distance.     The  pair— lovers, 
it  wonld  seem — [)assed  out  of  view. 

And  Sydney  roused  iierself,  her  heart_ beating  in   the  most 

absiu-d  manner.     The  man  was  so  like  IJertie.     Could  it  be  ? 

'Ihen  she  broke  off.  What  a  ridiculous  idea  !  Uertie  was 
doubtless  on  his  way  from  New  York,  and  she  vvas  idly  loiter- 
ing here  after  promising  papa  not  to  stay  a  moment  longer  than 
she  could  help.  She  hurried  on,  and  in  five  minutes  was  in 
]\lrs.  Simpson's  cottage  and  in  Mrs.  Simpson's  arms. 

"  Bless  the  baby  ! ''  her  nur.se  cried,  a  bu.\om  woman  of  forty, 
widi  llie  pleasantest  of  faces  ;  "  how  she  is  grown  !     As  tall  as 
her  manuua,  and  as  pretty  as  a  picture  !  " 
A  shower  of  kisses  wound  u))  the  sentence. 
"When  did  you  come  home?"  Airs.  Simpson  asked,  placing 
a  chair  for  her  )-oung  lady,  and  removing  her  hat. 

"About  two  hours  ago,  and  have  run  over  to  see  you  the 
first  thing.  No,  thank  you,  Hetty,  I  won't  take  my  things  off. 
1  promised  papa  not  to  stay  but  a  minute." 

"  Which  he's  been  that  worriting  about  your  coming,  Miss 
Sydney,  that  I  thought  he  would  have  gone  after  you  himself, 
sick  as  he  is.  And  now  your  home  and  going  to  be  married  to 
Master  15ertie  right  away.  Oh  !  my  dear,  darhng  Miss  Sydney, 
I  \\o\)c  it  may  be  for  the  best." 

Tlie  pleasant  face  chjuded  a  little  as  she  said  it,  the  pleas- 
ant eyes  looked  willi  wistful  affection  into  her  nursling's  fiice. 

"Certainly  it  will  be  for  the  best,  Helt)',"  Sydney  responded, 
brightly,  and  yet  with  a  certain  reserve  in  her  lone  that  told 
Mrs.  Simpson  the  niatler  was  not  to  be  discussed;  "and  you 
shall  have  a  brand-new  brown  silk — you  always  sighed  for  a 
yellow-brown  silk,  J  remember — to  dance  at  my  wedtling.  How 
is  the  baby,  and  how  is  Mr.  Simpson,  and  how  are  you  getting 
on?" 

Mrs.  Simp^.oiVs  fnf-e  grew  absolutely  radiant.  Tlvbnhy  was 
well — bless  him  I  Miss  Sydney  must  see  him  at  once  ;  and  Simj)- 
son  was  well,  thank  you,  and  f/iat  busy,  and  making  t/iai  money, 
all  thanks  to  the  start  her  [)apa  had  given  him,  and  she  was  tl.e 


1: 


I 


;» H 


I 


**  ALLAN  A-DALE    TO  ILLS    WOOING  HAS   COME.''    IC3 

ha])|)iest  and  tlKuikfulest  woman  in  America,  with  not  a  want  in 
the  world. 

"Only  the  yold-hmwn  silk,"  laughed  Sydney;  "ihal'h-  a 
chronic  want,  isn't  it  ?  ].et  me  see  the  baby,  and  then  i  nuist  be 
off." 

Afrs.  Simi)son  left  the  room,  returning  in  a  moment  with  a  six- 
jHonths'  old  ball  of  fat,  rosy  and  sleepy,  in  her  arms,  trying  to 
rub  two  blinking  blue  eyes  with  two  absurd  little  fists. 

"Oh  I  the  darUng  !  "  cries  Miss  Owenson,  jumping  up  and 
snatching  at  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  "  Oh,  00  love  !  Oh,  00 
ittle  pet-sy-wet-sy  !  "  Here  a  shower  of  kisses.  "  Oh,  00  'ittle 
beauty  I     Hetty,  he's  splendid  !     What's  its  name  ?" 

"Which  we've  took  the  liberty  of  naming  him  after  your  par, 
Miss  Sydney,"  responded  the  blissful  mother  ;  "his  name's  Regi- 
nald Algernon  Owenson  Simi)son,  and  at  his  christening  your 
par  presented  him  with  a*  silver  mug — a  real  silver  mug — and 
your  mar  with  a  lovely  coral  and  silver  bells." 

Sydney  had  all  a  true  girl's  maternal  instincts,  strong,  though 
dormant.  ]5aby  was  smothered  with  kisses,  which  naturally 
taking  baby's  breath  away,  Reginald  Algernon  Owenson  Simp- 
son opened  his  cherubic  mouth,  and  set  up  a  howl  that  made  his 
mother  s])!  ing  to  the  rescue. 

"  Poor  'ittle  pets,  did  1  scare  it  then  ?  "  cooed  Sydney,  pecking 
dai-  'ly  at  one  little  i)aw  ;  "  Aunty  Syd  shall  fetch  it  something 
l)it._  next  time  she  tomes!  Now  then,  Hetty,  1  really  must  rot 
stay  another  minute.  I  ougnt  to  be  on  my  way  home  now,  but 
1  lingered  '"  my  old  fashion  to  look  over  the  rocks, — you  re- 
member ? 

"  1  remember,  Miss  Sydney  ,  it  was  the  terror  of  my  life  that 
you  would  break  your  neck  over  Witch  Cliff.  Ah  !  that  jiath  isn't 
as  (piiet  now  as  it  used  to  be  ;  they've  got  to  calling  it  I>over's 
]>ane,  of  late.  All  them  factory  girls  and  their  young  men  go  a 
courting  along  that  way  Sunday  nights,  and  t.ie  actors  and  ac- 
tresses at  other  times.  1  suppose  you  know  they  started  a 
I  theatre  over  in  Wyckclifife  ?  " 

"No,  1  didn't  know  it.     Have  they?" 

"  Yes  ;  and  the  best  actress  of  them  all  boards  in  Brown's, 
next  cottage  to  this — Miss  Dolly  De  Courcy  she  calls  herself,  a 
fine,  fat,  l)lack-eyed,  dressy  )oung  woman,  with  more  young  men 
running  after  her  than  you  could  shake  a  stick  at." 

"Happy  Miss  De  Courcy  I  Well,  good-by,  Hetty.  I'll  run 
over  to-morrow,  or  ma)be  next  day.  Dood-by,  baby — div 
Aunt  Syd  one  more  tiss." 


lo.i     "  ALLAN-A-DALE    TO   HIS   IVOOING  ILU   COME." 


i 


i:i; 


"  Mow  fond  you  are  of  bal)ies  !  Ah  !  wait  until  you've  got 
'cm  of  your  own,"  says  Mrs.  Sin)pson,  jjrophctically,  at  wliich 
Sydney  kuighs  and  blushes,  and  runs  out,  and  starts  more  briskly 
than  she  came  on  her  homeward  walk. 

She  encounters  no  one  this  time  ;  it  is  the  loneliest  walk  con- 
ceivable, but  she  docs  not  feel  lonely.  She  sings  as  she  goes; 
she  is  singing  as  she  enters  the  gates  of  The  I'lace,  singing,  as  it 
chances,  the  refrain  of  the  ballad  she  had  overheard,  half  an 
hour  before  : 

"  It  is  good  to  be  ofT  with  the  oM  love 
Before  you  are  on  with  the  new." 

The  belated  moon  has  arisen  as  she  emerges  from  the 
shadowy  drive,  upon  the  broad  belt  of  sward  tiiat  encircles 
the  house.  On  the  portico  stops  stands  a  tall,  dark  figure,  smok- 
ing a  cigar.  Her  heart  gives  a  (juick  beat,  but  she  sings 
gayly  on. 

With  the  last  words  she  runs  up  the  steps  and  stands  beside 
him. 

He  has  not  offered  to  move — he  stands  coolly  v/aiting  for  her 
to  come  to  him. 

"  Ilertie  ! "  she  exclaims,  her  frank  gladness  at  seeing  him  over- 
coming her  new  and  disagiceable  shyness,  and  she  holds  out 
both  hands. 

He  removes  his  cigar — holds  it  carefully  between  his  fmger 
and  thumb,  takes  the  two  proffered  hands  in  one  of  his,  bends 
forward  and  kisses  her. 

"  Ah  !  Syd.  1  thought  it  must  be  you.  How  cruel  of  yoii 
to  run  away,  when  you  knew  I  was  coming  as  fast  as  steam 
would  bear  me.  Stand  off  and  let  me  look  at  you.  ]5y  Jove  ! 
how  you  have  grown  and  how  jwetty  ! " 

He  says  it  in  a  tone  of  admiration,  languid  but  real,  and 
Sydney  laughs,  remembering  it  is  the  twentieth  time  within  the 
last  four  hours  she  has  been  told  the  same.  With  that  laugh 
every  shade  of  embarrassment  vanishes.  After  all  it  is  only 
15crlie — the  old  ]5ertie — a  tritle  more  manly-looking,  but  as 
affected  ami  nonsensical  as  ever. 

"  Certainly  after  all  yotir  efforts  to  improve  me,  could  I  do 
less  ?  And  you — [  don't  see  much  change  or  imjirovemeiit  in 
you,  Bertie,  except  that  I  think  you  also  have  grown  !"  Then' 
she  pauses  and  regards  him  doubtfully.  "When  did  you 
come  ?  "  she  asks. 

"Ten  minutes  ago,"  responds  Mr.  Bertie  Vaughan,  "and 


t    ■ 


:>  M 


you 
and 


*' ALLAN-A.DALE    TO  HIS   IVOOLVG  HAS   COME.'^      105 

w''ir.^'"'' n  ?  "''  "V^  '^^'  '^"  ^-^"""""cement  that  yo„  hadn't 
nil     ?^^^  '''"'  •''''"»  ^^^''^^  '^^^^'  ^"^^l^'^'^l  <"^'  to  bear  u, 

c.ga-cost  lifty  cents  nr  New  York,  and  you  must  own-v  m 
really  nn.st,  s.s,  ,t  would  be  a  pity  to  throw  it  away"  ^ 

.    A  sad  pity,"  says  S)dnev,  gravely.     "  Pray,  don't  do  anv 
tl^.ng  so  uKadly  extravagant,'  Mr.   Vaughan.     ^You  came    ten" 
""nntes  ago,  dul  you  ?     Hun.-m!  that's^dd,  too."  '''' 

^J\h^  s  odd  ?      Uy  getting  here   ten  ,ninutes  ago  ?      Ex- 

;--;  does  not  shine  on  the  spot  ^;K  he    tand^      S^^'Jhe 
b-ncL-st  of  blonde  con.plexions,  and  it  redS       Hk^rgi'^^^^ 

''It  was  very  like  3-ou,"  pursues  Sydney,  slowly  "the  hif 

wiis  'sr  ^ji;:^.^^^^^''  ^'^^  «-^  overcoit-i^ouid  ^^e  :i:::iij 

A.c^e!?S';h.^!;r^  ^°  ^"■^"'-  '-^^'^'T ''  ^^>'^  ^^^'^^^  ^^-^^  that  af: 
iny  w  J^^l^  tSl  ^^^'^r^^^'  Sydney  ;  <«  nn.st  have  been 

dc^-ble,  and  I^;^b:tingrdij'""^^-      ^^^>'  ^^^  ^-"   '"^ 
|Mt  wasn't  \-ou,  Eert^ie  ?  " 

you  I'n^anruf';  b  "''• '^Z     ^'J"''  '''""  ""'"'"°"  «^'^^^'  '"'gl^t  tell 
sense       r  n  i.  ^""'^  1'''"^''^'  ^^  ""^^  '  ^ut  then,  com.non 

^S  b^mlrng'scL^b^.^"^  ^^  '''  ^^'^"^-  ^-^'^^  -  ^  young 
Sli'^fV','  ?  '"'"  ^^^'"'-T  says,  abruptly. 

sliaiw  in  iK-r  min,]       } T    ,  "  ,  '  '"'''^  '""S  l«en  taking 

01,1  fashioned  ut      sir,  i'h  I?*,  !""""";"<-'  H''--  <"l'c-r  rooms- 

change.,  ,he  ..'uii^^r:';"      i'^, .:;  ':,t.?r;TH"  '"^■■'•■^- 

A  siiiutl  Bioadx ■•     '  •    '         ^^ 'Kai  a  tabk 

land,  stand 


iwood 


piano  that,  ten  year 


uie,  reaauu 


chan-,  holdin 


^  open  \n  a  corner 


Th 


s  ago,  came  from  luii:. 


e   uualid   is 


in   his  great 


a  paper,  but  listening  fur  his  daughter's  footst 


;ps 


*    -« 


it 


S 


lo6     ^^  ALLAN- A.n.lLE    TO  HIS    WOOING  HAS  COME» 

instead  of  reading.     As  she  enters,  Bertie  behind  her,  his  whole 

^'' Wdtruss,"  he  says, ;' you  are  back  safbly  after  all.  Did 
vnii  come  and  sio  alone  ?  ,         , 

^  ''  Aione,  papa.  Who  was  it  said  :  « I  am  never  less  alone 
than  when  alone  ? '  It  was  my  case  to-mght.  I  have  had  a 
surfeit  of  surveillance  during  the  past  three  y eavs.     V  reedom  is 

'''"You  hear,  IJertie  ?  "  says  the  squire  ;  -  strong-minded  no- 
tions,  eh  ?     She  lets  you  see  what's  in  store  for  you  betimes.    ^^ 

"  Strong-minded   notions  are  very  pretty  from   pretty  hps 
Mr.  Vaughan  answers,  and  he  gives  Sydney  the  most  thoroughly 
adniiriim  glance  he  has  given  her  yet.  •     i    , 

She  looks  brilliantly  well.  Her  walk  m  the  frosty  air  has 
flushed  her  cheeks  and  brightened  her  eyes  She  stands  up^ 
right  and  slim,  her  scarlet  cloak  talhng  back,  her  Y^  ow-browa 
curls  falling  loosely  over  it,  the  cociuettish  hat,  with  its  long 
plume  setlmg  off  the  fair,  star-hke  face  beneath.  1  he  old 
sailor's  doting  eyes  linger  on  her. 

"She  has  improved  in  her  dull  Canadian  schoo -do  t 
you  think  so,  Bertie?     And  shot  up  like  a  bean  stalk,  little 

^^'"  Ii"ni)roved  is  hardly  the  word,"  answers,  languidly,  Mr. 
Vanghan.  "  I  wouldn't  mind  going  there  myself  for  a  year  or 
two,  if  they  would  turn  me  out  '  beautiful  forever,   like  byd. 

He  lavs  himself  out  upon  the  nearest  sofa,  long  and  slender, 
and  very  handsome,  in  a  fair,  effeminate  way.  He  has  hair  in 
hue  and  silkiness  like  the  pale  tassels  of  the  corn,  arge,  dreamy, 
light  blue  eyes,  a  faintly  sprouting  moustache,  and  a  Dundreary- 
ish  drawl.  A  "  B.eauty-Man,"  beyond  dispute— a  Narcissus, 
hopelessly  in  love— with  himself.  _ 

"  Play  us  something,  Syd/'  he  says.  "I  pme  for  a  httle 
music.     And  sing  us  a  song."  i     •     „ 

She  sits  down  and  obeys.  She  plays  fairly  well,  and  sings 
very  nicely,  in  a  sweet  and  carefully-trained  voice,  and  is  duly 
imiised  and  apjilauded.  .        ,,,.,,.     i 

"  \h  !  you  should  hear  CyriUa  Hendnck  smg,  Bertie  !  she 
exclaims,  twirling  round  on  her  stool.  There's  a  voice  and  a 
player  if' you  like!  By-lhe-by,  pai.a,  you're  to  write  to  her 
;.V,,it    Dormer,    and    ask    leave    for  Cy  to  come  here  and  be 

"sheTu^>s  suddenlv  short,  meeting  her  father's  knowing  smile, 
and  Bertie's  glance,  and  blu.hes  vividly.   Bertie  probably  under- 


ME?* 

lis  whole 

ill.     Did 

;ss  alone 
I'e  had  a 
ecdoui  is 

ided  no- 
times." 
tty  Hps," 
,oroughly 

y  air  has 

tands  up 

»\v-bro\vn 

its  long 

The  old 

ol — don't 
alk,  little 

idly,  Mr. 
a  year  or 
l:  Syd." 
\  slender, 
as  hair  ia 
■,  dreamy, 
undreary- 
Marcissus, 

)r  a  little 

and  sings 
lid  is  duly 

-tie  !"  she 
)ice  and  a 
ite  to  her 
re  and  be 

ving  smile, 
ibly  under- 


*' ALLAN- A- DALE    TO  ILLS    IVOOIMG  HAS   COME."       107 

Stood    and    the   hhish   was  contagious,    for    he   too    reddened 
througii  Ins  thin,  fair  skin. 

"And  be  brirU's— oh  !  yes,  we  know  what  she's  to  l^e— (>h 
]!ertie,  my  boy?  What!  you  blushing  too!  lilcss  my  soul! 
wliat  a  basliful  ])air.  Char,  shove  that  writing-case  over  this 
way— 1  II  do  It  now.  Comes  of  a  very  good  family,  does  your 
friend,  Miss  Hendrick,  on  the  distaff  side.  Her  mother  was 
third  daughter  of  Sir  Humphrey  Vcrnon-ran  away— disin- 
herited—Inun-m.  The  aunt,  Miss  Dormer,  very  wealthy  old 
ady,  engaged  once  to  nephew  of  the  Earl  of  Dunraith— 
Jnim-m-m.     'My  dear  Miss  Dormer.'  " 

The  letter  was  speechiy  written,  folded,  and  sealed.  More 
inusic  follovved  more  talk.  Air.  Bertie  Vaughan  was  ratlier 
silent  througii  ,t  all,  rather  tired  looking,  rather  bored,  and,  it 
might  be,  a  tritle  anxious.  Certainly  his  face  wore  anythin-  but 
he  expression  of  a  rapturous  lover.  He  lay  on  his  sofa,  pulled 
the  ears  of  Mrs.  Ovvenson's  lavorite  pug,  Kixie,  and  watched 
bydney  askance. 

Early  hours  were  kept  at  Owenson  Place.  Sydney,  accus- 
lomec  to  going  to  bed  at  nine,  and  fatigued  with  her  jouniey,  was 
strugghng  heroically  with  yawns  before  the  clock  struck  ten. 
1  lie  striking  of  that  hour  was  the  signal  for  prayers.  The  ser 
vants  filed  m,  the  squire,  in  a  sonorous  bass  voice  led  the  exer- 
c iscs.    1  hen  good-nights  were  said,  and  leaning  on  his  wife's  arm, 

room    '  ^°"'^'  '  '"'''^^'  °^  ^^'^  ^^^"-'^^  "^^'■^^^  fo*-  1"S 

"And  I  will  smoke  a  cigar  for  half  an  hour,  outside,"  said 

h  ve leer;  d?'  ''''''^}^^-     "  Virtuous  as  1  am,  and  always 
have  been,  the  primitive  hours  of  this  establishment  are  a  height 

\^T:.:i:^;^;^''-'^^  ^— ^  goodnight,  a^!;: 

"Sydney  nuist  cure  you  of  smoking  cigars  after  ten  o'clock  " 
the  .,uire  answered,  good  humoredly.    ^'  Good-night  to  you, 

o^^it\  :^"!^''"  "^"^^^^  A""t  Char  ;  «'  put  on  your 
overcoat,    my  dear  boy,    and  tie  a   scarf   around    your  neck 
o    even  your  pocket  handkerchief  will  do.      Consid^    these 
fainnghts  are  chilly,   and  you  might  catch  a  cold   in   your 

.hnc^over'?r'''.'    ^n"'^"^^   ^^>'^^"'^>'   ^^^^'"'"^    ^   n.ischicvous 
^o       ;.  u  ''^°"1^'^"^-     "  tor  goodness  sake  don't  forget 


io8    <<  ALLAN-A-DALE   TO  HIS   IVOOLVG  HAS  CO.}fE." 


shoes,  Tiiamma— the  groimtl  my  be  ilanip— nnd  hadn't  Perkins 
l)cttcr  hold  an  iiiiibrella  over  him  to  keep  off  the  dew  ?  " 

She  ran  of*",  her  mocking  laugh  coming  back  to  hun,  and 
vanislied  into  her  own  room.  And  Mr.  Vaughan  did  put  on  his 
overcoat,  and  button  it  uj)  carefully  to  the  throat,  before  gomg 
out  for  that  last  smoke.  It  might  be  fun  to  Syd,  but  Aunt  Char 
was  right— he  would  take  proper  iwecautions  agamst  a  cold  ui 

ihe  head. 

He  lit  up,  and  walked  and  smoked,  a  reflective  frown  on  his 
face,  and  saw  the  lights  vanish  from  the  upper  windows.  Mr. 
Vaughan  was  doing  what  he  was  constitutionally  unfitted  for 
and  unused  to — thinking. 

"  She's  very  jjrettv— uncommonly  i)retty,  some  fellows  might 
think"— a  pause  and  a  puff— " and  to  think  of  her  seeing  me 
to-night.     ]iy  (ieorge  !  " 

He  looked  up  again — Sydney's  light  winked  and  went  out. 

"Yes,"  IJertie  mused,  "she's  pretty,  and  she's  doosid  good 
style,  and  she's  an  heiress,  and  a  very  jolly  girl  so  far  as  1  can 
see,  but  still " 

He  seemed  unable  to  get  any  farther.  He  looked  uneasdy 
up  at  the  house  once  more.  All  was  dark  and  ciuiet.  He 
pulled  out  his  watch  and  looked  at  that.  It  was  twenty  minutes 
past  ten.  The  moon  was  shining  brilliantly  now,  silvering  woods, 
and  fields,  and  house.  His  eyes  went  slowly  over  the  silver-lit 
prospect. 

"  It's  all  hers,  every  inch  of  it,  and  mine  the  day  I  marry  her. 
I  don't  sec  how  I  can  help  marrying  her.  It's  a  confounded 
iniuldle,  look  at  it  how  you  will.  Sometimes  I  wish— yes,  by 
George,  I  wish  I  had  never  seen " 

Once  more  he  abruptly  broke  off.  This  time  he  thing  away 
his  smoked-out  Havana  and  started  rapidly  for  the  gates.  They 
were  bolted,  and  a  luige  iMiglish  mastiff  stood  on  guard — very 
unnecessary  precautior.s  in  that  peaceful  place,  but  of  a  {)iece 
with  the  squire's  general  fussiness. 

"Here,  Trumps — (piiet,  old  boy,"  he  said,  and  Trum|>s' 
hoarse  growl  rumbled  away  into  silence.  He  slid  the  bolts, 
opened  the  gate,  closed  it,  and  struck  at  once  into  the  rocky 
path  by  which  Sydney  had  come  and  gone  four  hours  before. 
He  met  no  one  until  he  left  it  and  took  the  fust  street  leading 
into  the  town.  Here  all  was  (piiet  too,  the  stores  closed,  a  few 
bar  rooms  alone  sending  their  fatal  liglit  abroad.  He  drew 
near  a  large  building,  at  whose  entrance  lamps  burned,  and 
from  which  strains  of  music  came.     Turning  an  angle  of  thif 


m 


m- 


"  ALLAN-A-DALE   TO  HIS   WOOING  HAS  COME:'   109 

building,  he  came  upon  a  young  girl  standing  alone,  her  shuvl 
wra])i)ed  about  her,  her  back  against  a  dead  wall— evidently 
waUnig.  ■' 

"A.n  I  late,  Dolly?"  deipanded  Mr.  Vaughan,  in  ahreatiiless 
tone.  "Awfully  sorry,  upon  my  honor,  but  I  couldn't  help  it. 
I  couldn't,  u])on  my  word." 

He  drew  her  hand  luxler  his  arm  and  led  her  off,  bending 
down  affectionately  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  face.  A  piciuant 
face,  ht  with  bright  restless  eyes,  and  plump  as  an  apple.  There 
was  rouge  on  cheeks  and  lips,  and  powder,  thick  everywhere 
rouge  was  not,  but  the  foce  he  looked  at  was  pretty  in  spite  of 
that,  with  a  certain  cJiic  and  dash. 

"Are  you  angry,  Dolly?  Ui^on  my  soul,  I'm  sorry,  but  I 
couldn't  help  it.     By  Jove,  Dolly,  1  couldn't." 

"Angry?  Oh,  dear,  no!"  answered  Miss  Dolly,  with  a  flash 
of  her  dark  eyes-"  not  I,  Mr.  Vaughan  !  Only  when  a  young 
gentleman  tells  a  young  lady  he'll  meet  her  a  quarter  after  tent 
and  (loesn  t  come  until  a  (piarter  past  eleven,  it's  time  for  that 
young  lady  to  hnd  another  escort  home.  It  isn't  jileasant  wait- 
ing three-ciuarters  of  an  hour  out  in  the  cold,  and  I  won't  try  it 
on  again,  1  can  tell  you  that !" 

"Come,  now,  Dolly,  you  don't  mean  to  quarrel  with  me,  do 
you?  I  couldn't  stand  that.  I  told  you  I  positively  couldn't 
get  away,  and  I  couldn't.     There  was  "—a  momentary   hesita- 

cTvil~    ''  ''"''''''  ''^   ^''''  ''''"''''    '^""^  ^  ^'"^"^  ^"^  ''-'^  ''^"'^  "^^  ^'^'^ 

"A  young  lady,  Bertie?  "  asked  Dolly,  quickly,  with  a  sudden, 
sw'ft,  jealous  change  of  tone. 

"  Oh,  yes,  a  young  lady.  In  point  of  fact,  my-my  cousin— 
.lome  trom  school." 

Bert^"' ■"  ''''"''"  ■     ^""  "'"''''"  ^°^'^  "'^  ^""^  ''-'"'^  ^ ''°"-''"'  ^^f°''e» 

"  Didn't  I  Doll  ?     Because  I  forget  everything  and  everybod , 
I  tlie  world  but  you,  1  suppose,  when  I  am  with  you." 
liiatis  all  very  fine,"  says  Mis.  Dolly,  whose  strong 

T'f\l  'f  """^  '''^"''^'    "  ^^  ^'^'^  pretty— this  cousin  ?  " 
btiU   harping  on  my  daughter  ! '  "   lauglis  Jiertie. 
a    all  n,y  dear.     A  skim-milk  school-girl,  pallid,  deli- 
moie  to  you  than  a  penny  candle  to  the  moon." 

anvHnltTe-''avT/'  '""''"'  ^"^^^^^^l ^^^   ^^'^^  I^ollv,  in 
V,:  :  ■'  °  ^°"^  '      ^';^,  ^  suppose  ^ou  wouldn't  fall  in  love  with 
your  cousin,  even  if  she  was  ever  so  pretty.     I'v^  heard  En 
hsh  people  are  like  that."  ^  v„  ncaia  i.ng- 


in  tlu 


l)oint, 

"  Not 

'te  ;  no 


no  "ALLAN-A-DAI.F.    TO  HIS   WOOING  HAS  COME" 

"  Fall  in  love  with  my  cousin  !  ha,  ha  !"  laughs  IVrtic  again,. 
"That's  a  good  joke.  Oh,  no,  Doll;  one  young  woniar'i 
enough  to  be  in  lovi-  with  at  a  time." 

"And  that's  >nf,"  says  Dolly,  giving  his  arm  a  tender  little 
s(|uee/c,  her  angiM"  totally  gone,  and  the  twain  walk  in  delight- 
ful silence  on  for  some  yards.  "  I  supijose  that  grumpy  old 
imcle  of  yours  wouldn't  consent  to  your  marrying  an  actress, 
though  ?"  the  girl  asks  again,  with  an  impatient  sigh. 

"  \\'ell,  no,  Dolly,  i  am  afraid  he  wouldn't.  My  uncle  is  a  man 
of  tolerably  strong  prejudice,  and  tolerably  strong  selfishness.  I 
hate  selfish  people  !"  says  Mr.  Herlie  Vaughan,  savagely. 

"  lie  would  cut  you  off  with  a  shilling,  1  sui)pose,  as  the  heavy 
fathers  do  in  the  pieces?"   suggests  Dolly. 

"Precisely,  cut  me  off  without  a  shilling  ;  and,  by  Juinter, 
Doll,  I  haven't  a  penny,  no,  not  a  half[)enny,  but  what  the  old 
duffer  gives  me." 

"Well,  you  could  go  on  the  stage,"  says  Dolly,  reassuringly. 
"  With  your  fact;,  and  your  figure,  and  your  aristocratic  air,  and 
yo'ir  education,  and  everything,  you'd  make  a  tip-top  walking 
gent." 

"Don't  say  '  tip-fop,'  Dolly,  and  don't  say 'gent,'"  corrects 
Mr.  Vaughan.  "  Yes,  there's  something  in  that.  1  could  go  on 
the  stage,  and  I  always  liked  the  life.  Well,  if  the  w(jrse  comes 
to  the  worst,  who  knows? — I  may  don  the  sock  or  buskin. 
Meantime,  here  we  are  at  your  lodgings." 

"And  oh!  by-the-by,  iJertie,  I  nearly  forgot!"  cries  Dol'y, 
keeping  fast  hold  of  his  arm.  "We're  to  have  a  sailing  party 
over  to  Star  Island  to-morrow  afternoon,  after  rehearsal,  a  clam 
chowtler,  a  dance,  and  a  good  time  generally.  I've  refused 
everybody,  because  1  wanted  to  go  with  you.  You'll  come? — 
half-past  one,  sharp." 

"  Really,  Dolly,  much  as  I  would  like  to,  I'm  afraid " 

"  What  !     You  won't  come  ?  " 

"I'm  afraid " 

"  You  must  stay  home  and  make  love  to  the  boarding-school 
icousin.  Oh,  I  see  it  all!"  cries  Miss  Dolly,  in  bitterness  of 
spirit. 

"Nonsense,  Dolly!  Make  love — nothing  of  the  sort;  only 
my  uncle " 

"  Oh  !  your  uncle,  of  course,"  cries  Dolly  again,  with  ever- 
increasing  bitterness.  "  Very  well,  Mr.  Vaughan!  do  as  you 
please.  I  wouldn't  think  of  coaxing  you  for  the  world.  Only 
1  can  tell  lien  \V^ard  1  take  back  my  refusal  and  will  go  with 


'^ALLAN.A.n.ir.E  IS  NO  BARON  OR  LORD."        in 

cn.isn!  1  he  snccnni;  scorn  with  which  the  actress  brings  out 
these  tuc,  nmii  y  titKs  is  not  to  be  described.  "  A  ;r«/  irood 
tune.     (lood-n.ght,  Mr.  Vanghan."  /^ /^«/ feood 

•    ^I'i^  V'^'Ai  '^  ''^^'  '■'^''^■«t  and  best-looking  young  mill-owner 
in  \  yckchtfe,  and    Miss    Dolly  l)e    Courcy's    n.ost      be^en 
un,ble  servant.     As  she  says  good-night  slie  turns  to  go,  leave 
ng  hnn  stamhng  nresolute  at  the  gate.     She  is  half  way  to  the 
,door,  when  he  lifts  his  head  and  calls  :  ^ 

hin?    U'^^^   ^T"^  ,''"'''\n/?">'-     '^""'^  ^^^  Ward,  confound 
mill.     ItU  be  allritiht.     I'll  be  there." 


1 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"ALLAN-A-DALE    IS   NO    BARON   OR    LORD." 

T  is  the  morning  after,  half-past  eight,  and  breakfast 
tune.     Out  of  doors,  yellow,  crisp,  sparkling  sunshine 
lies  ()ver  land  and  sea ;  the  orange  and  scarlet  inai.les 
and  hemlock  glow  and  burn  like  jewels.     A  few  uor- 
gcous  dahlias  yet  lift  their   bold,  bright  heads,  where   all  the 
summer  flowers  are  dead  and   gone,  and  the  scarlet  clusters 
hang  from    the  rowan-trees    like  bunches  of  vivid  coral.     In- 
doors the  breakfast-table  is  spread,  and  silver  and  china  and 
crystal  Hash  back  the  sunlight  cheerily.     A  <ire  snaps  on  the 
licarth   and  makes  doubly  cozy  the  whole  room.     Around  the 
able  all   are  assembled— no  tardiness   at   meal-times  will   be 
tolciutcd    m    the   household   Squire  Owenson    rules.       Bertie 
V  aughan  looks  a  tntle  fagged  and  sleepy,  and  struggles  manfully 
not  to  gape  m    tlie  face  of  the  assembled  company.     Sydnev' 
^vIl(,  has  been  up  and  doing  since  half-past  six,  sits  down  with 
eu's   like  stars  and  cheeks  as  rosy  almost   as  the  clusters  of 
rowan  berries  m  her  lovely  loose  hair. 

xv.i,l/;r''^  ""^  lliat  child?"  says  the  squh-e,  his  whole  face  aglow 
M.lh  the  love  and  delight  he  cannot  hide  ;  "  she  might  sit  for  a 
portrait  of  the  goddess  Hygea.  And  we  used  to  tliink  lir-r  d.^h- 
catc  :  (Jpon  my  word,  a  Canadian  boarding-school,  long  les- 
feJ»i.S  and  short  commons  must  be  capital  tilings  for  health, 
tiertie,  my  lad,  what's    the   matter  with    you   this   morning? 


112        ''Af^AN-A-DA/.E   IS  NO  /IIA'ON  OA'   LORD:' 


Didn't  your  l.ist  cij^^ar  sit  well  l;ist  ni^^Iit,  or  had  you  tlie  night- 
mare ?      \(ni  look  rather  white  ahoiit  the  gills." 

"Delicacy  is  my  normal  state,"  Mr.  V^uighan  answers,  lan- 
guidly. "Aunt  (Ihar,  I'll  troiTnle  you  for  another  steak  and  a 
se(  ond  help  of  those  very  excellent  fried  potatoes.  I  am  but  a 
fragile  blossom  at  best,  that  any  rude  wind  may  nip  in  the  bud. 
A  second  cup  of  cotfee,  Aunt  Char,  if  you  please.  Really, 
Katy  is  a  cordon-hlcii  ;   I  never  tasted  better  in  my  life." 

fie  meets  Sydney's  laughing  eyes  with  pensive  gravity,  and 
the  squire  booms  out  a  great  laugh  in  high  good  humor. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  my  fragile  blossom,"  he  says,  **  we 
will  try  if  change  of  air  won't  do  you  good.  Syilney,  I've  a  treat 
in  store  for  you.  One  hour  after  breakfast  let  all  be  ready  in 
their  very  best  rigging — the  carriage  will  be  at  the  door  and  we 
will  go  and  make  a  day  of  it  over  at  the  Sunderlands.  We'll 
see  if  we  can't  blow  the  wilted  roses  back  into  the  lily-like 
cheeks  of  our  fair,  fragile  Mr.  Vaughan." 

"Oh,  how  nice  of  you,  papa  !"  cries  out  Sydney,  in  her 
school-gH-1  way  ;  "  how  glad  1  shall  be  to  see  Mamie  and  Susie 
Sunderland  again.  And  we  can  have  a  row  in  the  afternoon 
across  the  bay  to  Star  Island.  You  are  the  very  best  and  kind- 
est papa  that  ever  lived." 

"  Of  course,  of  course — best  of  men  and  fathers.  Hey,  15er- 
tie  what  do  you  say  ?  Confound  the  lad  !  he  looks  as  glum  as  if 
he  had  heard  his  death  sentence.     Say,  don't  you  want  to  go  ?  " 

'I'he  Hash  in  S(|uire  Owenson's  lion-like  eye  might  have 
intimidated  a  tolerably  strong  n>an.  A  strong  man — mentally, 
morally,  or  physically— IJertie  \'aughan  was  not.  His  tone 
was  deprecating  and  subdued  to  a  degree  when  he  spoke. 

"  Really,  sir,  nothing  would  give  me  more  pleasure,  but " 

"  Well  !  "  cried  the  old  martinet,  in  an  ominous  voice,  "  what  ? 
No  stammering— si)eak  out !  " 

"I  have  another  engagement — that  is  all.  I — I  might  bieak 
it,  of  course,"  says  Mr.  Vaughan,  rather  agha.-t. 

"Oh-h  !  You  might  break  it,  of  course  I  Then  will  you  have 
the  very  great  goodness,  Mr.  Albert  Vaughan,  to  break  it ! 
When  1  propose  a  pleasure  excursion  in  honor  of  my  daughter's 
arrival,  no  one  pleads  a  prior  engagement  in  my  house.  At  half- 
liast  nine,  sharp,  young  man,  )'ou  will  be  ready  !  " 

An  angry  Hush  arose,  hot  and  red,  into  the  delicate  face  of 
Bertie  Vaughan.  He  set  his  lii)s  with  rather  a  sullen  air  and 
Went  silently  on  w  ith  his  breakfast. 

IJut  Sji  Iney  cinie  bravely  to  the  rescue.     She  was  not  a  whit 


<i 


It 


** ALLAN-A.DALE  IS  NO  BARON  OR  LORD»        uj 

ever  i,  in,  aild  ifcrward  L,     ,  ,   1  .t'"   "unT'Si";"  ^^^^ 
every  hit  as  well  "  "^^  ''*^^^  "'''  ^^ 

out  of  the  dileii.ma.  °  '^''-'''-'  '^^'  ^"'^  ^"^'  ^^''^r 

^^l^^^:^  color  d"'"^^'"'''"  '^  ^^''^'  '^^"•'•-''^' 
i'.n  sorry  1  mk'XS  it  J,"'^,?  .^'^l^"'"^'  ^^^-^  "ot.ly  a  trillc. 

^^;;S;S;d;-'^-^^^^'- " 

bro^^and'slMH;;^;!  "  sonorous  grace,  said  with  lowering 

J^ouse.      V^^^^t^  ^^^o^-..^^or.  by  the  n.aster  of  thf 

"  ]?e  off    o  ''  ^'''^'■'■'''  ^l^"f'^"ice  across  at  Ilertie 

onle!!  ,,t  :^CT:I'u  'T-^'  ^-^^'^-^  -">  ^'f  yo"  ••  '■  he 
woe  be  ide  tl  •     on     ?i  "     .'l^^^'-^^'r-deck  voice,"  "and 

nine  ! ''  ''  ''""  '^'^^  ^^  ^^^^  """"^^"^  later  than  half-pa.t 

-^'n!'if;:i"i::tS"Lhe;i;  '•"  /"'-->-'  lingeWnglong 
li"l'--  '-cak^    IJert  fl   ol^h  0  n;r''  "' '"'"'^""'^^  ^''  audacious 

•^!-v,  sedate:  and  s'n^^'fa^fh^Jt-r"?'",-'   ^^--  ^-'-""^ 
ali  sublunary  thin-s        '  ^^  ^'  ^"'"^^  '"'"'''  ^^  under 


I 


114      **Arj..iX:i-nAU':  is  no  haron  or  lord:' 

allows  his  soveroi^nn  si-x.  "  Dolly  will  raise  the  devil !  Yes,  by 
J(tve,  she  will,  ami  Ik-n  Waitl  -hanj,'  him  !— will  cut  in  and 
have  evi-rylhinu'  his  own  way.  'I'he  mill  owning  cad  wants  to 
ni;iiry  her,  and  will  if  only  to  spite  inc.  And  if  Sydney  nisists 
on  going  over  to  Star  Island  in  the  afternoon,  as  si\e  will  be 
sifi-  to  do,  with  the  conruiinded  contrariness  t)f  lu'r  kind — by 
Juvc,  what  an  infernal  nniddle  !  Ten  to  one  if  Dully  sees  inu 
thert*,  witii  all  tliose  girls,  she  will  make  a  scene  on  the  spot. 
I!ul  I  won't  go  to  Star  Island— no.  bv  (leorge  !  wild  lujrses  won't 
drag  me  to  li\e  that  beastly  little  twoi^enny-ha'-jjenny  island  !" 

I'.iil  what  should  he  do?     At  half-i>ast  twelve  precisely  Dolly 
W'dd  be  awaiting  him,  and  to  wait  for  any  human  being  sat 
as  uly  upon  the  imperious  little  actress  as  though  she  had  been 
Oran'd  Duchess  of  (lerolstein  in  her  own  right.     He  had  kei)t 
lur  wailing  last  night,  and  with  this  added  she  would  never  for- 
give him— never.  '  She  would  go  off  in  dire  wrath,  and  hreath- 
ing  vengeance,  with  that  clodh()pi)ing  mill  man,  Ward,  and  the 
(xids  were  he  would  lose  her  forever.    To  lose  Dolly  De  (Jourcy 
was  to  Mr.  Vaughan's  mind,  this  morning,  about  the  bitterest 
eartlily  loss  tha(\-ould  befall  him.     As  far :',  .\  thoroughly  weak, 
thoroughly  sellish,  thoroughly  shallow  man  can  love   any  one, 
he  lovc'd  this  black-eyed,"  loud-voiced,  sharp-tongued,  plum|), 
dashing,   daring,  sparkling  actress.     She  sang  Uie   most  auda- 
cious songs,  danced  the  most    audacious    dances,  played  the 
I'lench  Spy  and  Mazepi)a,  and  set  all  the  men  in  the  house 
crowmg  and  clapi)ing  over  h<  r  mf)st  audacious  double  cntcndres 
and  die   air  of  innocence   with  which   she   said   them.      'I'hree 
weeks  ago  he  had   lost  his  head — on  the  first  night  indeed  on 
which  he   had   seen  her  at   tiie   little  Wyckcliffe  theatre,  in  the 
dashing  role  of  Jack  Shei)pai-d.      For  the  matter  of  thai  a  d()/,en 
other  young  men  had  lost  their  heads  on  the  same  auspicious 
occasion,  Imt  among  them  all  Uie  blue-eyed,  fair-haired,  aristo- 
cratic-looking  young    h'nglish   gentleman    i)roved  conquering 
hero.     Pretty,  i)lump  1  )olly  had  a  romantic,  if  rather  fickle  fancy, 
and  he  captivated  it.     Any  one  exactly  like  him,  with  his  slow 
tra'inantc  voice,  his  soft,  languid  laugh,  his  gentle,  obse([uious 
manner,  the  provincial   actress  had   never  met  before,  and  all 
the  rich  young  mill-men  had  been  nowhere  in  the  race.     They 
might  sneer  at  "  Miss   Vaughan's"  pretty  white  hands,  curling 
Hyperion  locks,  soft  little  mustache  like  the  callow  down  upon 
a  gosling's  back,  his  lavender  and   lemon  kids,  his  scented  and 
embroiiiered  handkerv  iiiets.      Miss  De  Courcy  liked  all  these 
elegant  and  patrician  i.h'i  '^';'  )/ccause  s'.'.'  -vasu't  used  to  them. 


m 

1 

1 

'^^^^B 

^ 

fl 

1 

fl 

V 

wk 

/ 

i'l 


M» 

Yes,  by 
t  in  and 

wants  to 
cy  insists 
It*  will  be 
kind — by 
•  socs  nic 

tllC  S|)()t. 

SOS  won't 
island  !" 
cly  I)i)lly 
bcinjf  sat 
had  been 
had  kci)t 
lever  for- 
<l  Itrcath- 
,  aiui  the 
»e  Conrcy 

bitterest 
lily  weak, 

any  one, 
1,  plniMi), 
)st  auda- 
layed  the 
he  honse 
cntendres 
.  Three 
ndeed  on 
ire,  in  the 
,1  a  dcj/.en 
luspicious 
ed,  aristo- 
jiKluering 
;klclancy, 
h  his  slow 
bseciuious 
e,  and  all 
:e.  I'hey 
Is,  cnrling 
own  npon 
cntcd  and 
1  all  these 
1  to  them. 


"ALLANADALE  IS  NO  BAKON  OK   LOKD."        115 

L,    ^^'  '  '""''    '"'   "'t^'"^^'  'Ulmiralioi,  u|  these 

t'ugs  HI  hnn  In  ,,  ,nr  '  fact,  IJcrtie  Vau-'ha.,  was  «- i  b  ^ 
;^'  -a-.ty  and  a  joy  ..,.ver  "  in  her  eyes,  and  .h  ■  h'  dd  ,S 
1'  -e  .nannd  h.m,  to  use  her  own  foi.bic,  ,t  not    00    da  u. 

am  Hc(i.  r,  ot  any  nnll-mdhonnaire  (  i  theuj  all   *' h.in.r  uifh 
'  '-"onds.-       She  took  his  bouquets,  and  h^s  co    licr     r^J  u^ 

Jui(  Us  „f  cvciy  look,  or  won!,  or  smile  tiiven  to  the  hi..nl,l,..f 
a-Hl  ho,„ci,est  of  her  sisterhood.    Thi.  Henie  kiew     H        d tn 
vould  u  be  when  she  fomKl  iiim  breaking  iiis  pomise   sU   h  L) 

"  nure  will  be  the  very  dickens  to  pay,"  groaned  poor  JV. 

.ill.  ™l;,'ii;""'  '■"'  ""•"'«'>  «'"•  '-•  ™^'W  "Ot  ,,ursu. ,.,.  „.. 

'■I'll  wnle  iicr  a  nolo  awl  send  it  with  M.irphy,"  .  c  tliwit  ,. 
alk-i  a  inoi.iunt's  imifonm  cuuil.iiiun  "  ItV  1,..  l,  ,  ,  "t--  '• 
-.;.;■  only  Ihing  1  .a„  do.     C^c.^.d  tl,    go  '    „  ,?   '  S'th^ 

na.      H L   ne  l^/i  °^.^^f •°";^'1>' '  ^'"g  even  strong,  r  anathe- 


gin 


•— iJon't   liitt   with    vVard 
Air.  Vaughan  hastily  folded  and 


or   H     ker,    that's   a    dear 
seaied    lis  eloquent  epistle, 


Il6       <* ALLAN-A-DALE  IS  NO  L'.IA'O.V  OR  LORD." 


'«    'k 


and  went  off  in  searcli  of  "  Murphy."  Murphy  was  a  small  boy 
of  twelve,  and  errand-runner  in  general  to  the  household.  An 
understanding — strongly  cemented  by  dimes  and  ([uarters — had 
been  establislied  between  him  and  "  Masdier  Hertie  ; "  and 
Murphv  alone,  perhai)S  of  the  whole  family,  knew  how  liis 
young  master  was  running  after  the  actress.  It  still  wanted  ten 
minutes  of  the  a])pointed  hour,  and  without  loss  of  time  Murphy 
was  hunted  uj). 

"1  say.  Murphy!"  called  Vaughan,  softly,  whistling  liiin 
aside,  "  I  want  you." 

"Yis,  sur." 

"1  want  you  to  deliver  this  note  before  twelve  o'clock,"  said 
Bertie,  slip|Mng  the  note  and  the  customary  fee  into  the  young- 
ster's grimy  hand. 

Murphy's  grin  broadened.  He  could  not  read,  and  it  was 
the  fust  time  he  had  ever  been  called  upon  as  letter-carrier  ;  but 
he  understood  perfectly. 

"1  will,  sur.  It's  to  t/wm  ye  kii07ii,  sur,  isn't  it?"  cried 
Murjihy,  shutting  one  eye  and  cocking  up  the  other. 

"It's  to  Miss  1  )e  Courcy.,  and  must  be  delivered  before 
twelve.  You  will  wait  for  an  answer;  and  mind.  Murphy,  not 
a  word  to  a  living  soul." 

"  Not  a  sowl,  sur,  livin'  or  dead  !  I'll  be  there  an'  back  in  a 
pig's  wliisjier,  sur.     Long  lite  to  ye,  Mishter  Bertie  !" 

"  Hi  !  there— you.  Murphy.  'Old  the  'osses'  'eads,  will  yer  ?  " 
cried  out  Perkins,  the  co(::kney  coachman,  "  iieg  parding,  Mr. 
Bertie,  didn't  see  you,  sir,  but  the  hoff 'oss  is  a  bit  restive  and 
fresh  this  morning.  1  say,  Murphy  I  look  alive,  will  yer.  'Ere's 
the  squire." 

Murphy  held  the  frisky  off-wheeler,  and  Mr.  Perkins  mounted 
to  his  seat.  Squire  Owenson,  leaning  on  Sydney's  strong  young 
arm,  appeared,  Mrs.  Owenson  following.  Bertie  sprang  forward 
to  assist  him  in;  then  Mrs.  Owenson,  then  Sydney  ;  tlien  with 
one  parting  glance  of  intelligence  at  Murphy,  sprang  after. 
Perkins  cracked  his  whip  and  away  they  went  at  a  rattling  pace 
down  the  avenue. 

'I'he  gloom  of  Bertie's  untoward  remark  still  hung  over  the 
horizon  of  the  S([uire.  His  Jove-like  front  lowered  portentously. 
Bertie  saw  it  and  fuigetted  rather  uneasily,  essayed  small  re- 
marks, and  looked  in  the  intervals  out  of  the  wmdow.  Jiut 
S)dney,  radiant  of  face  and  toilet,  set  herself  assiduously  to 
restore  sunshine  and  harmony.  She  talked  nonsense  and 
laughed  at  it,  made  small  jokes  and  lauglied  at  them,  and  the 


5* 


small  boy 
lold.  An 
ters — had 
e;"  and 
liow  ills 
ranted  Icii 
e  Murphy 

tling    h'v.n 


ock,"  said 
he  )'oung- 

likI  it  was 
iirier ;  but 

t?"   cried 

•ed  before 
ar[)hy,  not 

back  in  a 


A'ill  yer  ?  " 
rding,  Mr. 
estive  and 
,'er.  'Ere' 8 


^  mounted 
ong  young 
ig  forward 
then  with 
aiig  after, 
.tling  i)ace 

4  over  the 
rlentously. 
I  small  re- 
;low.  liut 
luously  to 
sense  and 
I),  and  the 


/i  ;l 


laughter  was  infections  if  the  hnmnr 

reached  the  Stnulerlan;i  '   g\  "  ^..^.^^l^^^^    ^Y  the  time  they 

-;  ta;f:urfc.r;s^LSd  ^"7  '^'  '^^^^-^  -^i 

&V^l-;ey  and  Jiertie  ;  and  in  the  mid  .ff  T'^  '"J"'"''^^  ^o  see 
good  fellowship,  yomvr  Van  nV  .  ''''«''^''^'"'  ''^'^^'  ^^^K  and 
;shed-like  n.i's't  before  the  t'  r!'  ''''"  "^  ''"-'^-•ness' va  ! 
to  whom  it  is  a  sheer  vhvlt.  ,'^'''  ""^^  °^  those  peonle 

-who   shake   off  .;,   '    o     j    '"j-l'^-^^'hty  to  be  unhapp^Yj  ^. 
clrnik.  and  be  merry  to  hv   rL      f'','"  ^"'"^''  ^'^^    v'  1   eat"' 
.  :i-i-  young  n.en  ^nK,kt{'e  .T"  and '"'"'  '"^^^  to.norrow.' 
lon^gs  for  tlie  past  year--the?  .  h -k       '""J'''/'^'^^  ""^es  of  their 
h'<^■^y,se.    SycIney'sapproacl/imMntrf^  '        ^'r    '^'^^"^^  ^^^nd  did 
beanngs,  and  tiie' I\ii.  ses  S^^m  Wl     ?]    ^^'^  ^vas  discussed  in  all  its 
he  hve  bridesn^aids  to  ofHcate  u  fo  ^r '"^  "^^'.^^^^  ^"  '"^^'<e  two  of 
looks  anc    Chesterllelciian   ma     ^Vwer  >''"""•     ^'^''tie'sgood 
&y<hiey;s  unproved  prettiness  Sen  I.        ''"''^"'■^^l^'y   Prated. 
the    pnvy   council    became   gcmS^ -n '"'""''/''' ^^'^-     '''hen 
they  played    bilhards,   and    cHd    I  o  h  "■     '^'^^>'^"^1    ^'-oqnet, 

^';<1   tunu.lt  that    the-;  pj  elrated  "'"'^   '""''   ^^ay  laughte; 

wh('iv>    fi,        1  1  ■^    r>-"eirate(i    even    tn  t  .  .     i        •        ft'"-*-' 

"•'l^,'  •'"'^'J  '""k  ™  cal,„  a,Kl  ZJiy-  ''""'"  """.  =""1  Ih^ 

7«»  lovely /,he  ,„,-;  "^^  ^vt  e'f,  ^'.""''■■'■''""'  f"""-"^  ^' 
fcct,  a  famt  breeze  n„„le,|  ,|„  !,  ^  "■'  '"l'l""S  to  tlieir  vei  v 
I'oals  ticated  over  it  ill,'  ",'"'•■'>'  ■'""■f'«<--  of  the  AthuiL 

6-",i"  its  blue  ix«",f '-•''''',';'''' ?^",''l-'"-'  hy  lil  e      «  ei^' 

n..-iU,„  „„,,.„,  ^f^^  ^ij.  wmcli   the  .evelleiscoiild  be  sevii 

^'■■>»'.  for  .  ducat,  a,„l  tl.afs  her  I'lLkf  "l.T'^  f'^*' 

1  iLiuic.     it  rcmuids  one 


t 


Il8        *^ALLAN-A-DALE  IS  NO  BARON  OR   LORD^ 

of  the  man  in  the  poem— Dolly's  ostrich  feather  is  sure  to  be  in 
the  thickest  of  the  fun. 

"  And  'mi<l  tlie  thic1<est  carnage  blazed 
The  helmet  of  Navarre." 

"Who's  Dolly  De  Courcy?"  asked  Sydney;  and  Bertie 
Vau^haii's  miilty  heart  ^ave  a  jump,  and  then  stood  still. 

"Oh'  a^)retty  black-eved  actress  trom  New  York.  Very 
jolly  little  girl— eh,  Vaugh'an  ?  Yon  know,"  laughed  Mr.  Sun- 
derland the  elder.  .    ^     ,  ,     ■       • 

In  an  instant— how  T.ertie  did  curse  his  fatal  complexion  in 
his  heart— tlie  red  tide  of  guilt  had  mounted  to  his  eyes.  T.olh 
the  Sunderlands  laughed,  a  malicious  laugh.  Sydney  looked 
surprisetl,  and  the  younger  Miss  Sunderland,  who  was  only  six- 
teen and  (Hdn't  know  much,  said  : 
"Law  !  look  how  Bertie's  blushing." 

"1_I  know  Miss  De  Courcy— that  is,  slightly,"  said  Bertie, 
feeling  that  everybody  was  looking  at  him,  and  that  he  was  ex- 
pected to  say  something.  At  wliicli  answer  the  two  Mr.  Sun- 
derlands laughed  more  than  ever,  and  only  stopped  short  at  a 
warning  look  from  Miss  Sunderland  the  elder,  and  a  wondering 
one  from  Sydnc) .  , 

"  See  !  they're  going  home  ;  they're  putting  off  in  two  boats, 
cried  Miss  Susie' Sunderland,  holding  her  i. and  over  one  eye, 
and  squinting  through  the  glass  with  tiie  other.  "  Oh,  I  can  see 
them  just  as  plain  Tone,  two,  three,  four,  oh  !  a  dozen  of  them. 
There's  the  red  shawl,  and  black  feather,  too,  and  there's  Ben  ! 
yes,  it  is,  r.en  Ward,  Mamie,  helping  her  in.  They've— they've 
sat  down,  and  oh  !  goodness,  he's  put  his  arm  around  her  waist  ; 
he,  he,  he  !"  giggled  Miss  Susie.  _ 

"Perhaps  you  would  like  to  look,  Mamie?"  said  the  \yicked 
elder  brother,  taking  the  glass  from  Susie  and  presenting  it  with 
much  politeness  to  his  elder  sister,  wliose  turn  it  had  been  to 
redden  at  Susie's  words.  For  the  perfidious  Benjaniin  Ward, 
Ks(iuire,  had  been  "paying  attention"  to  Miss  Mamie  Sunder- 
land, very  markedly  indeed,  before  that  wickeil  little  tisher  of 
men',  Dolly  De  Courcy,  had  come  along  to  demoralize  him. 

"ko,  thank  you,"  Miss  Sunderland  responded,  her  eyes 
slightly  Hashing,  her  tone  slightly  acidulated ;  "the  goings  on 
of  a  crowd  of  actors  and  actresses  don't  interest  me.  Mr. 
Vaughan,  just  see  those  pretty  sea-anemones  ;  please  get  me 
some." 


h 


e  to  be  in 


**  ALLAN'-A-DALE  IS  NO  BARON  OR  LORD." 


ri9 


iixl  Bertie 
still. 

jrk.  Very 
d  Mr.  Sun- 

nplexion  in 
yes.  IJolh 
iiey  looked 
IS  only  six- 


said  Bertie, 
he  was  ex- 
.'0  Mr.  Sun- 
(1  short  at  a 
I  wondering 

two  boats," 
/er  one  eye, 
h,  1  can  see 
:en  of  them, 
.here's  Ben  ! 
ve — they've 
\  her  waist ; 

1  the  wicked 
nting  it  with 
had  been  to 
jamin  Ward, 
Linie  Sunder- 
iltle  hsher  of 
.\lize  him. 
d,  her  eyes 
ii'  rrmncs  on 
it  mc.  Mr. 
•lease  get  me 


Mr.  Vanghan  goes  for  the  sea-anemones  with  her,  r.nd  Miss 
Mamie  becomes  absorbed  in  them,  suspiciously  absorbed,  in- 
deed, but  all  the  same  she  covertly  watches  that  coming  boat, 
with  bitterness  of  heart.  Alarm  is  mingled  with  Afr.  Vaughan's 
bitterness,  and  as  the  boat  draws  nearer  and  nearer,  he  rather 
nervouslv  [irojioses  that  they  shall  go  back  ;  the  wind  is  blowing 
chilly;  Afiss  xMamie  may  take  cold. 

"I  never  take  cold,"  Miss  Mamie  answers,  shortly;  "I  pre- 
fer staying  here." 

.So  they  stay,  and  the  boat  draws  nearer  and  nearer.  Syd- 
ney, with  an  interest  she  cannot  define,  watches  it  through  the 
glass  adjusted  upon  Harry  Sunderland's  shoulder.  They  have 
a  glass,  too  ;  the  gentleman  who  sits  beside  the  scarlet  shawl 
and  black  feather  fixes  it  for  his  companion,  and  she  gazes 
steadfastly  at  the  shore. 

Still  they  draw  nearer  and  nearer.  Does  Ben  Ward  i\o  it 
(he  IS  steering)  with  malice  prepensed  They  come  within  five 
yards.  No  need  of  glasses  now.  Dolly  De  Courcy  is  sitting 
very  close  beside  lien  Ward,  laughing  and  flirting,  and  she  looks 
straight  at  IJrrtie  V'aughan,  who  takes  off  his  hat,'  and  never  sees 
hnn.  Mr.  Ward  elevates  his  chapeau  politely  to  the  Misses 
Sunderland,  which  salutation  Miss  Mamie,  with  free/.imr  diLniitv, 
returns.  o      o      ^» 

"Pretty  Dolly  gave  you  the  cut  direct,  Vanghan,"  says  the 
elder  Sunderland,    enjoying    hugely   his   disconniture.       Harry 

[Sunderland  is  a  )iianly  follow  himself,  and  has  a  tliorough-o-oing 

.  contempt  for  insipid  dandy  Bertie  ;   "  or  else  she  has  suddenly 

^  grown  short-sighted." 

But  Bertie  is  on  guard  now,  and  his  face  tells  nothing  as  Syd- 
ney woiulenngly  looks  at  it.  For  she  has  recognized  the  hand- 
some, (uirk  girl  m  the  scarlet  shawl  as  the  same  she  encountered 
walking  late  last  evening  with  somebody  that  looked  so  sus|)ici- 

[ously  like  Bertie. 

_  The  water  party  float  away  in  the  distance.  Miss  De  Courcy 

isingmg  „nc  of  her  high,  sweet  stage  songs  as  they  go      As  it 

Idles  out  into  the  sunset  distance  thev  turn  as  by  one  accord, 

lanc  go  hack  to  the  house  ;  two  of  the  group  thoroughly  out  of 

■ports  with    themselves  and    all  the  world.     Sydney,'^   too,   was 

rather  silent.     What  did  all  this  mean  ?  she  wondered.     Most 

aoedient  to   her  father,  she  was  most  willing  tcj  marrv   Hertio 

Miignau  to  please  him,  without  much  lo.'e  on  either  side.     Yet 

inat  lie  cared  for  her  as  much  as  she  did  for  him,  was  as  loyal  to 

^er  as  she  was  to  him,  she  had  never  for  a  second  doubted. 


I 


I20 


''MEN   WERE  DECEIVERS  EVER.'' 


But  now,  a  vague,  undefinable  feeling  of  wounded  pride  and 
distrust  has  arisen  within  her.  What  was  'hat  actress  with 
the  bkick,  bold  eyes  to  him  that  he  should  redden  and  i)ale 
at  the  very  sound  of  her  name  ? 

"  It  surely  was  Bertie  1  saw  walking  with  her  last  night,"  she 
thought,  more  and  more  i)erturbed.  "1  will  ask  him  ;  he  shall 
tell  me  the  truth,  and  that  before  this  time  to-morrow  ! " 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


m 


"MEN   WERE   DECEIVERS    EVER," 

INNER  awaits  them.  It  wants  but  three  minutes  to 
the  hour  as  they  straggle  in,  and  Captain  Owenson  sits, 
watch  in  hand,  stormy  weather  threatening  in  his  eyes. 
'I'he  signs  of  the  tem[)est  clear  away  as  they  enter,  -nd 
all  sit  down  to  the  festal  board.  And  still  through  all  the  cheery 
talk  and  laughter  J5ertie  Vaughan  and  Mamie  Sunderhmd  re- 
main silent  and  distrait,  victims  to  the  green-eyed  mcMister  in 
his  most  virulent  form,  the  image  of  iJolly  De  Courcy,  in  her 
scarlet  shawl  and  sable  plume,  ui)setting  the  disgestion  of  both. 

"  And  1  reallv  think,  my  love,"  says  Mrs.  Owenson,  when 
they  arise  from  the  table,  "  that  we  ought  not  to  lingjr.  These 
fiill  nights  are  cold,  and  you  know  the  doctors  all  warn  you 
against  exjiosing  yourself  to  cold." 

There  is  wisdom  in  the  speech;  and  though  on  principle 
Captain  Owenson  contradicts  jjretty  nnich  everything  .Mrs. 
Owenson  may  see  fit  to  say,  he  cannot  contradict  this.  So 
adieus  are  made,  and  the  Owenson  party  enter  their  carriage 
anil  are  driven  home. 

It  is  a  perfect  autumnal  evening — blue,  frosty,  starlit,  clear. 
The  wind  sighing  fitfully  through  moaning  pine  woods,  the  surf 
thundering  dully  on  the  shore  below,  ring  dreamily  in  Sydney's 
ears  all  the  way.  She  leans  forward  out  of  the  window,  some- 
thing in  the  solemn  nnirmurous  beauty  of  the  night  filling  her 
heart  with  a  thrill  akin  to  i)ain  ;  and  still  that  dark  and_  dashing 
actress  occupies  her  thoughts — and  the  more  she  thinks,  the 
more  convinced  she  is,  that  last  night  Bertie  was  her  companion. 
If  so,  he  has  told  her  a  deliberate  lie,  and  the  girl's  heart  con- 
tracts with  a  sudden  sharp  spasm  of  almost  physical  pain  and 


''MEN  WERE  DECEIVERS  EVER.'' 


iti. 


clod  pride  and 
It  actress  witli 
den    and    i)ale 

last  night,"  she 
him  ;  he  shall 
irrow  ! " 


ree  minutes  to 
II  ( )\venson  sits, 
ing  in  his  eyes, 
they  enter,  muI 
;h  all  the  cheery 

Sunderland  re- 
yed  niiMister  in 

Courcy,  in  her 
festion  of  bcjlh. 
Jwenson,  when 

lingjr.  These 
s  all  warn  you 


h  on  principle 
very  thing  Mrs. 
adict  this.  So 
r  their  carriage 

:y,  starlit,  clear, 
woods,  the  surf 
iiily  in  Sydney's 
;  window,  some- 
night  tilling  her 
irk  and  dushmg 
she  thinks,  the 
her  coujpanion. 
girl's  heart  con- 
ysical  pain  and 


terror.  If  he  has  been  false  here,  will  he  be  true  in  anything? 
All  her  life  Sydney  has  been  taught  to  look  upon  lying  with 
horror  and  re|ndsion. 

'■  It  is  tlie  meanest  and  most  sneaking  of  all  cowardice,"  her 
blunt  and  fearless  old  father  had  said  io  her  a  hundred  times  j 
"don't  ever  lie,  Sydney,  if  you  die  for  it." 

"It  is  the  most  heinous  and  despicable  of  all  sins,"  her 
ghostly  directors  iiad  taught  the  child,  in  later  years.  ''No 
goodness  can  dwell  in  an  untruthful  soul." 

'      And  now — was  IJertie  false  ?  liortie,  whom  she  was  to  marry 
and  spend  al'  her  life  with. 

"  I  will  ask  him,"  she  kept  rei)eating ;  "  his  tongue  may 
speak  falsely,  but  his  face,  his  eyes,  will  tell  the  truth.  And  if 
there  is  anything  between  this  girl  and  him  "—she  stoi)i)ed  and 
caught  her  breath  for  a  moment—"  then  I  will  never,  never  bo 
his  wife." 

She  looked  at  him  wistfully,  but,  lying  back  in  his  corner,  his 
hands  clasped  behind  his  golden  head,  his  face  was  not  to  be 
seen. 

^    "  1  low  silent  you  young  people  are,"  the  scpiire  said,  at  last 
'anything  wrong  wuh  you,  puss?    A  penny  for  your  thoudits' 
Bertie."  ^ 

Theie  was  a  momentary  brightening,  but  t(^o  forced  to  last. 
Bertie  V^aughan's  thoughts  would  have  been  worth  much  more 
than  a  penny  to  his  tpiestioner— they  were   solely  and  absorb- 
cdiyot   Dolly.    He   must  see  her   to-night;    impossible  to   wait 
until  to-morrow.    Ben  Ward  had  been  at  her  side  all  day  pouring 
HIS  seductive  tlattenes   into  her  ears,  offering,   very  likely,  to 
make  her  mistress  of  die  new  red-brick  mansion  over  in  VVyck- 
chfte.     And  women  are  unstable,  and  gold,  and  offers  of  wed- 
ding rings,  have  their  charui.      He  had  nothing  to  otTer  her  but 
his  handsome  blue  eyes  and  Rapiiael  face;  he  had  never  even 
mentioned  wedding  rings  in  all  his  love-making.     Yes,   come 
what  might,  he  must  see  the  coquettish  Dolly  before  he  slept. 
It  was  half-pasL  ten   when   they  reached   The  Place,   and  the 
moon    was  beginning   to   silver    the    black    trees    around   it 
1  le  squire  was  growling  uneasily  about  the  cold,  and  it  was  .t 
relief  to  all  when  they  drew  up  on  the  front  steps,  and  P^ertie 
and  1  erkins  gave  each  an  arm  to  the  stiff  and  chill   old  sailor, 
and  helped  him  to  his  room.  ' 

"Are  you  going  out  again,  Bertie?"  Sydney  asked,  looking 
hmile' '"  '"''""'' '''  ''''  '"'l'^^'*'"'^  ^'^=  '^^'^^'  ^"^  ^"r"^'J  to  leave  the 


I 


J22 


'^MEN  WERE  DECEIVERS  EVER» 


if.  i 


.f . .  t 


, "  For  my  usual  nocturnal  prowl  and  smoke      Conlrln'f  d 

Hit  the  house  and  nuule  straight  fur  the  town  at  a  sw  L 
g  pace.     It  was  almost  eleven  now~if  ],c  could  only  iv  H, 
tlie  theatre  m  tune  to  see  Dolly  leave  ^ 

He  was  in  time.     Moonlight  and  lamnli-ht  ilcoded  th,>  IJ.f! . 

-p;^:.::,,t,S;":;;:iv:;;;.!;;;;,:;-;;r±-;i;^";>'' 

■■"I  I..  I.c  Ka.  .,,.1  Dully  ,dl\lH  i,  I,  "Js  "■"  '"'"  "  "■^«' 

were  enjoying  ,lu-ir  /,V.-,;/,7,  TI,eve°o,e.l  To  5  "',,''''■>■ 
home  iin.l  pm.se.l  at  llie  -uu  I  ,"l,  r  i  !>  "  "'"•'S'-- 
acro.  .he  n'.oonli.  ,-„a<,  Vau  ghan  ,  ,:':;;:;;;/  ^'Z  ^"1 

h;...dec.a..she.as..Lu,£:■:;;a:;;!:^,x;■^ll;^ 

and  tlS^g'^'fi^'/Xht'i  .":?  '^Tfr'  r"^'"'"«  "-  sate 

fo,-  ,,,e  «„„ts,  an.r.h°:':^;i-:i;i;„„-;i*-,^^'  '-■-  » --■:., 
wi.ha'coid"si;rha„;,";',r,.';''.? ""  '"■^"'' ""°'  ='°«'-"i«"' 

1  can  ,c)i;rr  Goo'ir,:;,*;  ■  '"'''^''''''  "'•  ''--"J-"-"  waw, 


^%^m 


I^ouldn't  sleep 

d  good -night." 
'\n  iU  a  swing, 
ikl  only  rcacii 

xlccl  the  little 
liiiiscir  ill  the 
in  the  famous 
^n  the  arm  of 
'irits,  too,  jicr 
per  tones  of 

ayly  say  ;  "  I 

yon,  Dolly," 

and  the  lis- 

:-'onie  to  this 

I  iiiin  it  was 

amoni,^  the 
'iikl  not  fur 
i-'i-  by  \Vai(i. 
ig  how  they 
y's  cottage- 
some  trees 
Mr.  AV^-ird 
-',  l>nt  I\riss 
pretence  to 
o  bed  right 

g   tlie  gate 
1"  so  imieh, 

Mr.  Ward, 
good-night 

lly,  on  the 

whole  imi- 
inin  Ward, 

etty    Miss 
wc  fellowi 


"MJ^A'  li'J-RE  DECEIVERS  EVER.''  t23 

call  him,  who  cnt  you  to  day  to  court  his  cousin  ?  If  it's  ihat 
niilk-sop,  Dolly,  Pn,  surprised  at  your  taste;  upon  my  word 
and  honor,  I  am."  j         ^ 

"It's  no  business  of  yours,  Mr.  Ward,  who  it  is,"  cries  out 
imi  y,  Her  black  eyes  snappmg  in  the  moonlight  :  "it  isn't  you 
anyhow,  be  sure  of  that.     And  if  you  think  ^our  ear-rings  are 
■  own  a-vay,  I  H  g,ve  'em  back  to  you.    Jt  shall  never  h^  said 

tena  s "  ''^'  '"'^'  '"''"''  1'''^'^^'"'^  ""^^^^  false  pre- 

fi'"^!Vr^:; the   ear-rings?"  said    Mr.    Ward.     "I    never 

1  ought  of  them,  and  you  know  it.  Uut,  seriously,  Doll,  I  think 
heap,  of  yon  ;  never  saw  a  girl  in  all  my  lite  I  liked  so  well  ; 
and    11   marry  you   any  day  you   like— so  there!     Can   J  sa^ 

k  S    Xli  ''  '     ''^  ""  r  ^"^"  ^'^'"'^"'S  of  ^'iss  Vaughan! 
Mit,  Dolh-,  upon  my  soul.     He's  booked  for  his  cousin-she 

"  i  axtT";?'  ^^'^P-^>'--^^l  '^-  been,  ever  since  he  left  otf 
liun  ,  and  the  weddmg  is  hxed  to  come  off  in  a  month       He's 

,)  our  n,iS\  "%?•  J^°^'  ^'^'"'^  °^^^^  '^^1  'l^'^'  ^"^^  '»^^ke 
uiMour  mind  to  be  Mrs.  Ben  Ward,  because  vou'll  never  -et 
a  better  ofter,  no,  by  George  !  while  your  name's  Dolly  ''      " 

Courc^tMn"^^''^f  ^'''''"^^'  '"°'"^'  *°  ^^^y?"  fl-'nianded'Miss  De 
Courc),  standing  "at  ga.e,"  and  with  anything  but  a  melt- 
ing expression,  as  Mr.  AVard  poured  forth  his  tender  wooing 

^^   ^  til,  1  guess  not  at  present.     What  do  you  say,  Dollv  ?" 
bed    "  ?nfnn    r^t'',/'"',;'^"  ^''''  ^""^^'  '^"'^   '^^  J^'^'"-'  ^^nd  go  to 

'  u  \ H         ?  '   '°''^  °^  ''"'^'''  f«  ^'^'  «^^''>  f'-J'^t  door. 
Dolly."   ''"'    '''°"'''  tl^e  imperturbable  J]cn.      "Good-night. 

l!ut  Dolly  was  gone,  and  Mr.  Ward  laughed  a  little  lau<^h  to 

!;5^ia^,r'L:;;l^ilo— ,---^'-■-- 
spite.''  ^''"'^'  ^""'^    ^'^^"  ^^°11  ^viU   have  me,  if  only  for 

stotd  B^S^' nUK' '^1  ^'"-  ''''  '^''^  ^'^^^^^^^^  ^'^  ^'-  1-'- 

•^sely  like  one  of  V  f^^»«c'"f  ^v,th    ealous)-.      It  was  pre- 

«uy  like  one  of  M.ss  De  Courcy's  own  situations  on  the  stige. 


I 


124 


''MEN  IVERE  DECEIVERS  EVER» 


II 


"Is  lli.ii  you,  Jien  U'.-uil?" 
"No,  Dolly—it's  I_llc,iio." 

yo„."  ^  '"''"'e  g"l-l've  somolhinjs  to  say  to 

Of  thitrulr,;";^?.^"'  "  ^^"'^^'""-     ^'--'>  i^olly,  wLat's  ti.e  use 

yourself  with  your  chnr,ni4  ^nZ^^^L  ''    '"'"  ^""  "^^^'^'^^ 

by  in -^"e::"^  •^■';;:^,f  i^'-r'  r'  ^"'^  '^-^  ^--^  ^^-e 

looked  down  upon  M,    V,^u,.han     "'     '^'  ^"'^"^^'^'  ^^°°^1  ^"^ 

ontofit~tricdn,ybes-an     f^ilj,''";^  '"  ^^-    -^  ^'-'^^^l  ^oget 

liavnig  an  cngam-mcnt  ho  <!,.».     V  '^'''''  "^^'"t'on  of  my 

to  see  th-  ni    i        I  ,     ^  '"^"  ^^  passion  ;  and   -o-i  on-!,h 

lu  .see  n.c  pa.'^siuns  he  can  i  v  info       ,v,,   i    r  i  ••'       ouylit 

but  I  had  to  go.-'  ^  "^°-     '^"'  -^  d'J  'w/  enjoy  niyseJf, 


Mr.  Vau^'Iian 
I  she's  soft  on 
'iidcr  I  (litlii't 

Bertie  by  tlie 
''  iiioincnt  he 
'■^•tl  at.       Jfe 

gravel  up  at 
•iitary  pause  ; 

in  a  tone  of 


and  Dolly's 

ts,  appeared. 

May  I  ask 

stage    no\v. 
ag  to  say  to 

liglit !     And 
am  ?  " 

lat's  tJie  use 

nrtain,  goes 
inds  in   tlie 

I'd,  but  with 

i'ou're  '  my 
^f  you  this 
ou  enjoyed 

been  clone 
stood  and 

•,  with  you 
ried  to  get 
to  offend 
tion  of  iny 
you  ought 
joy  myself, 


•MMiV   IV/i/a/!:  DECEIVERS  EVER." 


125 


"  Oh-h  ! "  said  Miss  De  Courcy,  cf)!dly.  "  I  always  thought 
you  were  a  grown  man,  not  a  little  bov,  to  be  ordered  about 
and  made  do  as  you  are  bid.  .Since  you  are  so  afraid  of  I  his 
awful  Captain  Owenson,  then,  and  so  dependent  u])on  iiim,  of 
course  the  nujuient  he  t-lls  you  to  marry  his  heiress  you'll  buy  a 
white  tie  and  go  and  00  it.  Have  you  anything  more  to  say  to 
me,  Mr.  Vaughan  ?  because  even  an  actress  may  have  a  rei)u- 
tatmn  to  lose  if  seen  standing  here  with  you  after  midni^ht." 

Slie  turned  as  if  to  go— then  lingered.  For  he  stood  silent 
leanmg  against  a  tree,  and  something  in  his  face  and  attitude 
touched  her. 

"Have  you  anything  more  to  say?"  she  repeated,  holdinrr 
the  door.  i  '  fa 

"No,  Dolly,  since  you  take  that  tone— nothing.  What  you 
say  IS  true— it  is  pitiful  in  a  fellow  of  twenty-one  to  be  ordered 
about  like  a  lad  of  twelve,  and  1  ought  to  have  held  out  and 
braved  the  old  man's  displeasure  and  gone  with  you.  I  have 
nothing  to  say  in  my  own  defence,  and  I  have  no  right  to  do 
anything  that  will  compromise  you  in  the  eyes  of  Ben  Ward, 
lie  s  rich  and  I'm  poor,  and  I  supi)ose  you'll  marry  him,  Dolly 
I  have  no  right  to  say  anything,  but  it's  rather  hard." 

He  broke  off  The  next  instant  impulsive  Dolly  was  down 
the  stei«  and  by  his  side,  her  whole  heart  (and  it  was  as  honest 
and  true  a  heart  as  ever  beat  in  its  way)  in  her  dark  shinin2 
eyes.  '  ° 

"  No  right  I  "  she  cried  out.  "  Oh,  Bertie  !  if  you  care  for 
me,  you  have  every  right !  " 

"If  I  care  for  you  ! "  the  lilue  eyes  look  eloquently  into  the 
black  ones  ;  "  do  you  doubt  that  too  ?  " 

"No!"  exclaimed  Dolly,  doubt,  anger,  jealousy,  all  swept 
away  in  her  love  for  this  man.  "  You  do  like  me,  Bertie  !  Oh. 
1  know  that  !     You  do  like  me  better  than  her?" 

"  Ihan  her?     Than  whom?" 

cousin  \V'7'  .'^'^°^Vr-'''^A'"  V^i\<^r,c^  to  talk  about  her,  your 
CO      n,  the  heiress,  Afiss   Owenson.     She's  sweetly  pretty,  too 

;;;Iter  tlTnt '?""'"  "  '  ''"  ""  '""^  ''''  '''''''^  >^«"  ^«  ^'^^  '- 

He  bends  down  his  hn-^dsome  face,  and  whispers  his  answer 

-a    answer  that  bnn^     che  swift  blood  mto  the  dusk  c-.b.eeks 

ot  tiic  actress,  and  a  wonderful  liirht  into  the  crlift^rin-  black 

ualiem  J^^  'Vv'  "'"  °^  ''  ^'^^"  ^'^^  ^''''■^^  «"t,  with  an  i))i. 
patient  sigh.     "  You  are  afraid  of  her  father.     You  are  depen- 


126 


"/WwV   iVERIi  DECEIVERS  EVEK:^ 

You  will  not  dare  ofluul  hnn,  aiul-you  will 


(l<^'nt  on   iiiiii. 
iiiairy  her." 

Ami  1  wish ,„„ w.::it. . '  jr^: , k.:'" i '■'""*'"''• 

Iloivcrs  even,  or  (roiir  am-  of  tl„  "<'"'".'"'  •  i-Mi-miKS  or 

don't  like  ie."  '  ■     ^""  '''■■'""«  to  "'^■.  and  1 

I  «.,,,  ;„a,l  ,„  "ee  yo,       ere  o,\   h      J""  "  ""i'"',  l'^^'^""'.  ''"' 
iveclilin,.  il,i„„,  lomi],,,  fr,„„  ].  -1    ,        ""''■'""'ii.  •iml  tile 

■".-Cumiri.e";;;;;;'';',  ''■•,:',;-'  •  j-  "-'-'-s '"  be  nex. 

miserai.le  evening  in  n,,-  life  "  ''"  ^'""'  ""•■  '""*' 

wClh,;;;!,'..   ^"  '""■  "■"'"''  '>--•■  '"-«1"  «'  .o  i.ear  yon  and 

-''^i.:r:i:;;;e':^Sir^tHr';r.rr»^»-" 

about  this.     1  love  you  so  well  thv  '•  ,     '  '''^^''"■"■^'  '"''* 

e..cd, ;-  ae.n  ,i,;.,«e  ,o  \!1:';:^^J:-:^^  ^""^"'^  ^'"- 

i"«  «i.r;  J:  ;j  ,f,n".^'  „  •'"."  >-""4ouVe  very  exac 

e^gecl  even  to  some  fellow  there  ?'•  "'  •'°''  '"''■'    ""'  ^■"- 

..o^f;|JJ,s!-;.^le;;i;a^;;^;™t^"-  '""— %h. 

H.e  ..ml,  b,„  yon  !  '  v^^I;  bei:™,..":?'-" '"  '  """'^  "■'"'  °"  -" 
^  iwl  yon  are  enga.^i.l  in  Ne«Mork  ?•• 

"ill  ...™,™;":u;r;,il,,r",,ent'  <{o!,rr',  ",'•',"  ''^^  ^ "«-' 

-ally  cared  tor  h,„,  „»  was■Vo';^^:;^  , ^  , '  ni,'  al -■     '  '"'" 
■at  ,s  Ins  nante?"  Vanghan  glontil/  a  ke    '*'■ 
."hat  does  it  nialter  abont  hisr>-im..  >      I'li 
m-nn  if  I  can  help  it      I'll  111"   "f '  ,'."  ""'"  ■■«■■=  liim 
Co....  Bertie,  don.'  look  iH ^^,  ^^^  I  S'.'tlytrr;:; 

I  -.-.ay,  m  this  U„sine.s,  bn,  i'lutrit't^  dl™  ^i'lj/H'^i,;;;,';,. 


A'." 

iiul— you  will 

ry  nobody  hut 
iianit'd  \V;ir(|, 

yoii,  1  don't 
'tit  I  couldn't, 
;  CMr-rinjj;s,  or 

to  luc,  and  I 

■Inuvn,  happy 
[Ji-L'scnts,  but 
u'li  Hcu  Ward 
isoii,  and  the 
ig  to  be  next 
:<-'n  the  most 

iL-ar  you  and 

ictresses  can 

:  deceive  me 

iii^liuUly  lal- 

vx'iy  exact- 
•rs  you  have 
are    not  eu- 

e  moonlight 

a,L,^ed  ?  " 
iiian  on  all 


ik  it  off— I 
t-     1  never 


er  see  him 

to-monow. 

makes  ua 

r  hitfcrlv  • 
a  lool  too, 
r  all  that." 


"  JI//-U   IVERE  DECEIVI  RS  Et^ER,'' 


127 


•'A  villain  and  a  fool  for  caring 
tress  retorts,  angrily. 

"Yes,  Doll;  but    I  do  care  fui    >ou,  yon  sec,  and  I 
never  refused   mysidf  anything  I  cared  for,  and  dc  I't 
begin  now.     So  1  shall  marry  you— how  or  when  1  don 
know  yet,  but  1  mean  to  marry  you,  and  you  only." 


r  me,  no    '  ubt, '  the  ac 


I  jiiite 


She  nestles  close  to  him,  and  there  is  sUence.  The  pUe  hhi- 
moonlight,  the  whispering  wind,  the  rustling  trees,  nothing  else 
to  see  or  hear. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  all  this  sooner?"  the  girl  asks  at 
length.  "Why  did  you  leave  it  to  Wen  Ward  ?  Even  last  night 
you  deceived  me— making  me  think  she  was  a  little  U'dv 
school-girl."  °  ^ 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  about  the  man  in  New  York? 
Why  hadn't  you  told  him  about  me  ?  It  won't  do  for  you  and 
nie  to  throw  stones  at  each  other— we  have  both  been  living  in 
glass  houses.  Let  us  cry  (juits,  Dolly,  and  bury  the  hatchet. 
You  know  all  now.  You  believe  1  love  you,  and  mean  to  marry 
you,  and  not  Miss  Owenson,  and  that,  I  take  it,  is  the  niain 
l)()mt." 

"  Hut,  Bertie,  this  can't  go  on  long.  She  expects  you  to 
marry  her  next  month." 

"  Her  father  does— she  doesn't.  She  would  verv  much  rather 
not  marry  me  at  all.  And  next  month  isn't  this.  Suflicient 
unto  the  day  the  evil  thereof." 

Unconsciously  to  himself  ]}ertie  Vaughan  was  a  profound 
tutahst,  lettmg  his  life  drift  on,  a  firm  believer  in  the  "  Some- 
thing-will-turn-up  "  doctrine. 

"  You  see,"  he  went  on,  <'  the  governor's  life  hangs  on  a 
thread— on  a  hair.  At  any  moment  it  may  end.  His  will  is 
UKule,  and  1  am  handsomely  remembered  in  it.  Me  may  die 
suddenly  before  the  wedding-day-in  which  case  a  comfortable 
con.petence  will  be  mine  for  life.  The  moment  he  finds  out 
Ins  he  Will  destroy  that  will,  turn  me  out,  and  disinlieril   me. 

ave  I  Pot  reason  enough  for  silence?    Just  let  things  drifV  on, 

1  ,f -ir'    ^^■;"  '''V""  ^'T'  '  ""^^  '^'  '^'^  ^1^^"  ^•^'^'  "f  the  wedding^ 
m'.  vl:  ''      '      "'  '*'''"  ^  ^^''''  '^''^''  "I'  '^'^  «P'^"g^'  to  tate, 
rim  away   with   you,  turn    actor  or  crossing-sweeper,  anrl    live- 
happy  ever  after.     There  is  the  proirramme  " 

evei'^'^H-     ^^f,^^'  '''^"•■'■>'  •'^tood  silent,  her  keen  black 
hnvnuH     ^'^.;f ='''^,^^^ly  »i'""    i",n.      How  selhsh,  how  craven, 
rC^fvn''   '7 '''""''  «>""7-'ty,  honor,  gratitude,  this  ma, 
she  loved  was  !    this  man  who  looked  like  a  young  Apollo  here 


12,1 


"Mi-.N  ii'iiii:  />/■:('/■:/ i'/ia:^  EVF.n." 


.  "No  !  "  Dolly  cried,  iuwanWy  ;  "that  l,c  slnll  ,...f  f    r  i 

i.^.; faJt  a,ui  iul;:::';;,;;,";!j.':r  -'^"'b'"-  "->.  hc  »i,uii  „„.. 

--"I- >  no  Jr.  E'a,L ':'  );ir;v;:r  <'.i:'?r^'"',""">' 

ni'Ksiml  l,i.s  «,w^  to.n.onow  "  '""•  '"'"  '»»  <'■"- 

'o,;.M  .i,e  r.,,  of  ,h..  ,,„,ic  i",.i.;.v„;;.-,>, ;,';;"  '""= "  ^°" '""' 
»toi.i.o<i;  a.,„d,ie„ z,  lu!^  'vr    ;'', '" ","''  •■'""•  "■= 

rest  of  ,1,,  ho^^-^ZX-TVf'  "l".  l"^-l>-'a<i?     The 
been  discovered     He      Sv;.,    I  ,'■''';  ""^  ''''"""  ''»''  "<" 

As  l,e  ,li,l  so  a  li,l,    an  tm  i  o,',  , ,        "'  '\  "',"'  ^"■■|'l'«'  "'• 
one  iigiuly  a„<l  sw.fily'        , "  |""     ) ;  'I'!'"  '"■"''"&  and  some 

"  IV-ikins   i«  fl,.,.         ,7    ,  '"■s'-'^ndriig  ilie  stairs. 

Tl.c"e  ";;'■.  •',[;;  '     ,' -  -"  «,i,x.  „f  Sy<.„ey  asked, 
■stairs  la     ,i„ln,d      l,'        ,■   '''^"=,<-'.n'l"l    two  or  three  more 

"■111  Jiertie  Vaughan  ^'^unW^s,  and  came  face  to  face 


('    slu.'  cxpecf 
I  iif)t  the  love 

'Mi:,'IU  I  If  not 
young  liL-ircss 

not  !    I  have* 

tliciu  to  this 

-  shall  never 

said,  looking 

:well,  Dolly  ; 

him  his  e;ii- 

'/(,'^,"  replied 
:  as  you  like 

ie  Vanjfhan, 
way.  Dolly 
'ill  of  sight, 

V'S,  you  will 

ighan  came 
led  in  Ca]>- 
<I  fro.     He 
sending  the 
-ad  ?     'i'he 
ce  had  not 
nd  opened 
tep[>ed  in. 
and  some 

isked. 
iree  more 
11,  her  yel- 
-e  to  face 


••  70   O.V£   THING   CONSTANT  NEVER."  I39 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"TO   ONIi    THING    CONSTANT   NEVER." 

HKRIC  was  an  instant's  pause — I)oth  stood  and  looked 
laeh  other  full  in  the  eyes.     Then  Sydney  spoke. 

"  Vuu,  Hertie  ?  "  she  said,  in  slow  wonder. 

"i,  sis,"    he  answered,   lightly.     «' 1  have  been  to 
Wyehclitfe.     The  engagement  1  had  to  break   this  nioiiiing  I 

kept  tonight.     lint  what  is  the  matter?    Your  father " 

"lias  been  taken  siuklenly  ill — a  sort  of  ague.  He  must 
have  got  thoroughly  chilled  on  our  way  home.  ( )h  I  I  wish  we 
had  not  gone  at  all.  IVrkins  is  away  for  Dr.  Howard.  Ah! 
here  he  is  now." 

The  doctor  entered  with  the  coachman,  and  went  straight  to 
his  patient's  room.  Sydney  and  I'.ertie  waited  outside,  both 
silent,  both  pale  and  anxious,  though  from  very  different  causes. 
If  the  ohl  man  died,  the  young  man  thought,  with  his  will  un- 
altered,  his  course  lay  straight  before  \v.\\\.  He  would  marry 
Dully  out  of  hand,  and  go' off  with  her  to  New  York.  There 
would  be  a  nine  days'  scandal— Sydney  would  despise  him— he 
wmced  at  the  thought — but  otherwise  she  would  not  care.  And 
in  two  or  three  years  some  lucky  fellow  would  win  her  heart  and 
become  master  of  Owenson  Place.  A  pang  of  jealousv  and 
envy  shot  through  him  as  he  thought  it.  He  was  prepared  to 
resign  both  himself,  but  all  the  same,  the  idea  of  that  other  who 
would  profit  by  his  folly  was  unbearable  to  him. 

Presently  the  chamber  door  opened  and  Doctor  Howard 
came  out,  looking  jolly  and  at  ease.  Sydney  sprang  up  and  ran 
toward  hnn. 

"It's  all  right,  my  dear,  it's  all  right,"  t"ie  old  doctor  said, 
patting  the  cold  htlle  hands  she  held  out  to  I  ,m  ;  "papa  won't 
cave  us  yet  awhile.  He  thinks  he  will,  but,  bless  yon,  wt 
know  better.  If  he  keeps  quiet,  he's  good  for  a  dozen  yc  I'-s  yet 
Now,  just  run  in  and  kiss  him  good-nighl,  and  then  away  to  bed. 
1  hose  pixnty  eyes  are  too  bright  to  be  diuuned  by  late  hours. 
Ail,  A[r.  Bertie,  good-morning  to  you,  sir." 

Sydney  shot  otf  like  an  arrow,  and  P.ertie  went  slowly,  and 
Willi  a  disgusted  teelmg,  to  betl.  "  Good  for  a  do/en  years  yet  !  " 
Oil,  no  doubt,  no  doubt  at  all.  It  is  in  the  nature  of  rich 
talhers.^uid  uncles,  ond  guardians  to  hang  to  the  attenuated 


»3o 


"  TO   ONE    THING  CONSTANT  NEVER  » 


S  I? ^  "^''  l''''"''  ""^'  'f'^  ^^^'^^O'body  connected  witl.  thcrr 
^v^^^^  be   nuu:l;  more  conifortable  if  they  went  quietly  to  thei^ 

thoZZ  Mr  '1 ''' I  ^''''\^-  'T  "I'  ^^'""'■^-  '^'^  wedding-day," 
thou-ht  All.  Vaughan,  bitterly.  "He'll  tough  it  out,  as  old 
Howard   says,  to  dandle  his  grandsons,  I've  no  doub        A 

'Si  ;:;Ttt  '    "^^;  '^'?  'l'-    ""-   •-^^•-^'-'^■l.for-love  and'   e 
o  Id-ucll-lost      sort    of  Hung.      JJy   Jove,    Dolly    will    have 

l^^u^l'ian "  ""'  "'  '"''  '^  '"■  '^"-^^''^  ^^•'^^'"  ^  "-k-  '^-   M.;^ 

huK^'on''^'  A^l  noon  Scjuire  Owenson  was  able  to  descend  to 
in  ..on.  A  letter  from  Afontreal,  in  a  stiff,  wiry  hand,  lav 
-Mde  ins  plate.     It  was  from    Miss  Phillis  Dormer,  and  con^ 

tamed  a  fjrac.ous   assent   to   the  visit  of    her    niece    CvHla 
u   same  evenmg  brought  a  note  from  Cyrilla  heSf  to  Svd: 


■4 


"  Petite  St.  Jacques,  Nov.  Sth. 
coZus'and  h^  ''~.^'  'u  'f  r'""^'"^-     ^""^   ^''>"  -'^--^'lly 

ThrJrU      r  ,'•'    ''"^""''    ^^'  ^"y  '"y  I^'i'lcsmaid's    dress 

a  sci'cf 'inh".;  'r,  '  r"n'"  "'^'^•^'"^'  '^•^   -^"'-'-1  '--^'of 
ours  (^l^-^^^-bell  is  ringmg),  but,  as  ever,  devotedly 

'  Cyrilla." 

n(r'L''?n^t?'-'''  ^>'^'"7^^°"1^^  J^^-^ve  danced  with  delight,  but 

s  .^      V,  ?i  "-•      ^' ^^''"ythmg  seemed  settled-her  trous- 

Cv  il  "'  "^"  r''^'  ^^"'^'^^^  ^'^'il  ^^"^1  ^^'■•-'^'^th  were  un-stai  s 

o.-:^^    .ol^r  'sh'"'. '"  ^^•^'■''^"'-^l'  -Hi  J'-tie  had  never's,:!;^^  a 
OIK.  uord.      She  glanced  across  the  table-they  were  at  dinner 
--to  where  he  sat  tntling  with  a  chicken-wing  ancl  ta^tim       '  U 
Sen    Z  sh       '  ''"  ^'^"^  "'  ''"^'•^-       ^^ '-■  ^-  -orth    hia  e 


:d  with  then: 
ietly  to  their 

j(kliiig-day," 
out,  as  old 
iHibt.  And 
:)ve  and  the 
will  have 
:e  her   Mrs. 

descend  to 

ry  hand,  lay 
:r,  and  con- 
ce,  Cyril  la. 
jelf  to  Svd- 


Nov.  8th. 

I  cheerfully 
liracles  are 
id's    dress. 
(1  leave  of 
devotedly 


elight,  but 
under;ned 
her  trous- 
'  ui)-stairs. 
'er  spoken 
at  dinner 
•ting,  with 
1  so  little, 
s  vanity  a 
I'P,  aiorti- 
w  as  she 

cause  he 
love  with 
niserable 
never  at- 


"  7^0   ONE   TIUXG   CONSTANT    NEVER.*'  131 

"Bad  news,  puss?"  her  father  asked.  "You  look  forlorn. 
What's  the  matter,  little  one  ?     Let  me  see  the  letter." 

She  hesitated  a  monient— then  passed  it  over  to  him  reluc- 
tantly, and  the  squire,  adjusting  his  double  eve-glass,  read  it 
sonorously  aloud.  Sydney's  eyes  never  left'  the  plate,  her 
cheeks  tmgled  ;  I'.ertie  sat,  an  indifferent  auditor,  his  whole  at- 
tention absorbed  by  his  champagne. 

Squire  Owenson  laid  down  'the  letter  and  looked  at  his 
daughter  througli  his  glasses. 

"Well,  petite,  that's  all  right,  isn't  it?  She'll  be  here  in 
three  days— two  more  ;  and  you  and  Bertie  shall  meet  her  at 
the  station.  ^Vhat's  that  troubled  look  for,  then  ?  You're  fond 
of  this  young  lady,  are  you  not? 

"  Yes,  ])ai)a,  very  fond.     I  )ear  old  Cy  !  " 
"Then  what  is  it?     It  isn't  that  you're  afraid  she'll  make 
love  to  Bertie— hey  ?  and  are  jeahnis  beforehand  ?" 

But  Sydney  had  tinished  her  dessert,  and  jumped  up  abruptly 
and  ran  away.  It  was  little  short  of  maddening  to  see  Bertie 
sit  there,  that  languid  smile  of  his  just  dawning,  and  feel  all  the 
cool,  self-assured,  almost  insolent  inditlerence  with  which  he 
took  her  without  the  asking. 

'l"he  two  days  passed.     Bertie  spent  a  great  deal  of  his  time 

away  from  The   Place,   doing  home  duty  at  stated  intervals, 

wlien  It  was  impossible  to  shirk   it  without  arousing  the  quick 

susjuc.ons   of  the    "governor."      He   drove  SydnJy   and    her 

mo  her  along  the  country  roads   together,  he  rode  out   twice 

with  Sydney  alone,  but  that  conversation  had  not  taken  place  • 

the  explanation  Miss  Owenson  meant  to  have  she  had  not  had 

as  yet.     It  was  one  thing  to  resolve  to  ask   Bertie  whether  or 

no  he  was  in  love  with  the  actress,  to  tax  him  indirectly  with 

falsehood,  and  another  thing  to  do  it.    Bertie  Vaughan,  her  old 

conuade  and  playfellow,  was  a  man-" a  gentle.nan  growed." 

as  1  egotty  says,  and  every  instinct  of  her  v\-omanhood   shrank 

from  oroachmg  the  subject.     It  was  for  him  to  speak,  for  her  to 

refuse  or  accept   as  she  saw  f^t.     He   never  did  speak-never 

canie  within  miles  of  tiie  subject,  avoided  it,  ignorid  it  utterly, 

hour  ofcv'lT  ^^   '"'^"Z  ^^■'  ^"  ^^'^-     ^^"J  ^^  ''^^'  ^l^^y  -Hi   tlfe 
sMu  g]wr       '  '^  '''""'''  """"^ '"''""'''  "^^''■'"^""^al  were  in 

skvZ^t^.  gloomy  November  afternoon,    "  onding  on  snaw," 
?he  fJ    I      'f'*''"V'"f'  S'-'-^y  ^^like,  a  wild,  long  blast  rattled 

leathery  Hakes   were   driltmg    through    the    sullen    air,  giving 


'3» 


TO   ONE   TIllMG  CONSTANT   NEVER. 


I>rom,-se  of  ,I,e  first  snow-storm   of  the  season  before  „,M 
iVopIe  inclined  to  clVlff  ir       '  1  ,T'  Tr'"'"'  '°  ""'^^^'^•" 

i"  ni^s;;  sir::,;  *^x:;r?u;;^'r{^i;if '  "ti"--- 

travelling  suit  of  diik  rrr^Vn  1"  .  ^.''""^  ^^-^^b'r  i"  a 

;;^.^.o,o„s^-^;:;'-^%-^'-*.n^^ 

ation  point,  n,  i  ,o,„i  '  i?  [  ,  ""'  l>«"-uf  k'ssnig  .imK-xclai,i- 
Dolly."  •  ■^'" '  ™'  ''"''  '»"*""S  e,tl,er_got  eyes  like 
ended.  '"t^t'S.Sl'i';,';  """^'  '»"  "'--  ^'I'  resen.blance 

I)atncian  profile,  and  clear  cn^    Z\.a  v       r  ^^^'"^Inck's 

one  invisible-green  li,l.i:^|  ba".r"'  "-''="'•  ••""'  fr'"'l<ly  exjendod 

mcnt ;  ho  l,as  an  instinc^e  k'im  f"  '.'  '""','^'"?  ™'"1'''- 
"'nht.  but  the  trtttl,  is,  Ik-  can  Ik"  f  '  '"^'"i.""  ''""""  '>' 
■" "'"er  has  taken  bin,  deciile.lly  ab  el,  u  ,  ,""  l""""""<^«l 
"Met  a  schoo|.,;irl,  more  or  less -w,  f  ''■"',  '■"I"--'''-'!  'o 

„    .    '""-Of 'tis  i-,„/,7;<r  anil  bread-and-bultery, 


before   mid 

n  as  S}'diiey 
cet,  a  velvet 
wind-blown 
■.  Vaugiian, 
now  coiner 
;>re(lisposecl 
to  "  chaff." 
sxperience, 
*vas  acutely 

lalfacjozen 
;  lady,  in  a 
'in  Sydney 
ly  into  lier 

the    pair, 

id  exclam- 

for  a  cen- 

eyes    like 

5einblance 
inilaiity  to 
I'endrick's 
-,  was  as 
retrousse 

■ick." 
nt  before 
ooked  at 
eyes  of 
extended 

■angei-  in 
iiuiinate 

s  J?ertie. 

coni])]!- 

Jwn  "   at 

UUllDCcd 

L'cted  to 
-buttery, 


YO  ONE   THING   CONSTANT    NEVER. 


'33 


and  instead  he  saw  a  regal-looking  young  lady,  with  the  "stilly 
tra  luil  "  manner  and  gracious  civility  of  a  grandc  dame.  The 
aggressive  feeling  he  had  felt,  before  he  saw  her,  deepened  ten^ 
fold.  He  had  intended  to  be  7'ery  civil — crushingly  civil  in 
deed— to  Sydney's  little  school  friend  ;  to  patronize  her  in  the 
most  oppressive  manner,  to  get  up  a  mild  flirtation  with  her 
even,  if  she  had  any  pretensions  to  good  looks  ;  and  behold, 
here  she  was  absolutely  patronizing  him,  and  looking  him 
through,  to  the  very  n)arrow  of  his  bones,  with  those  piercing, 
steadflist  black  eyes— like  in  color,  but  Avonderfully  unlike  in 
every  other  respect,  Dolly's. 

"  I  expect  you  two  to  become  fast  friends  at  once  !  "  cries  Syd- 
ney. "  You  know  all  about  each  other  beforehand,  and  are 
compatriots  besides," 

"  '  None  know  me  but  to  love  me, 
None  name  me  Ijut  to  praise,'  " 

..ays  Bertie,  helping  them  in.  "  I  have  heard  Miss  Hendrick's 
praises  sung  so  assiduously  for  the  past  week,  that " 

"  The  very  sound  of  her  name  bores  you— yes,  I  understand  " 
interrupts  Cyrilla.      "  Syd,  what    a    bewitching  little  turn-ou't 
and  what  handsome  stei)i)crs!     You  will  let  me   drive    you' 
won't  you?    I'm  a  capital  whip."  ' 

_  "  I'll  let  you  do  anything  you  ])lease.  Oh!  darling,  how  good 
It  seems  to  have  you  with  me  again  ! "  Sydney  said,  cuddling 
close  to  Cynlla's  side.  "  How  are  they  all  in  Petite  St.  [acciues? 
How  IS  Freddy  ?  "  ^ 

"I  have  not  seen  Freddy  since  the  night  I  risked  a  broken 
neck  and  a  shattered  reinitation  getting  out  of  the  window  to 
meet  him.  1  managed  to  answer  his  letter,  and  there  thing- 
remaui.     For  the  rest— Miss  Jones  has  left  the  school  " 

"  What ! ' 

"  Perfectly  true.  It  was  suddenly  discovered  that  she  had 
a  passion  for  novel-reading  (Mile.  Stei)hanie's  pet  abomination), 
and  was  a  subscriber  to  the  town  circulating  libiarv--that  one  of 
the  1-rench  gu'ls  was  in  the  habit  of  smuggling  in' the  forbidden 
1  lilt,  and  having  all  her  lessons  done  by  Miss  Jones  in  return 
ilie  crime  was  proven  beyond  refutation  and— Miss  [ones  sud- 
uenly  and  quietlv  left  the  "^f hool  "  >       -     ^^ 

*'  So  I  presume.     The  fact  remains— she  went." 


Ill 


»J4  TO   ONE    THING   CONSTANT  NEVER. 

"And  wluit  if  I  did,  Syd?  There  was  little  love  lest  be- 
t^vee,,  us  fro<n  the  first,  and  it  pleased  Heaven  to  diminish  it 
Oil  furtlier  acquauitance.  Yes-indirectly  it  was  throu-^h  me 
that  Ma'an>sclle  Stephanie  made  the  discovery,  I  must  own  " 

shrm;r:ii;i;:?n:;!:Sn.::r""""'^'   ^voluntarily,    Sydney 

jo:St^:;,;l;^^.tr;ho£dS^°"  '^  '-'''''^- 

"  I'ond  of  her  ?— no,"  Sidney  answered,  slowly  •   '*  but  I  am 
sorry  you  ,\,,X  Uj.s.     J>oor  Miss  Jones  !  life' had  /one  ha  d  wi 
he,      am  atraul,  nnd  soured  her.     She  stood  quite  alone   n  tl  e 
world,  and  it  was  all  the  home  she  had  " 

"My  dearest  Syd,"  Miss  Hendrick  said,  lau^hinff    -if  vou 
carry  that  tender  heart  of  yours  through  life  you'll  fm d  it  bl/ed 

;;^cnt!!u;^tis  aii."^ ""'''' '''- '---  ^  '-'^  '^^^^  -^ ' '^ 

"I  am  sure  of  it,  Sydney.     But  it  is  not  my  intention  to  let 
her  have  the  chance.     She  does  not  know  AuJt  Plis  address 

brealT  v^  ^^  '""'•■  '""•     /^"''''^  ^^'^"  '^^^-'  ^"  worl  for  the 
bread  they  ea   have  no  tune  for  vendetta.     Why  do  we  talk  of 

s<.  con.en,pfb  e  a  subject  at  all  ?     J.et  us  talk  of  >  o  u  el    S^. 

l^.     So  that  IS  our  Bertie.      He  is  as  handsome   as  kZZ 

"And,  like  Narcissus,  knows  it  only  too  well  " 
I  here  was  a  touch,  all  unconscious,  of  bitterness  in  c;,r.?,.«  ' 
answer  that  did  not  escape  the  cjuick  ^ar  onK'fHend    '     "'  ' 

tins  mou  h,  certamly.      Next  very  likely,  ?f_at  all  "  ' 

.         My  oear  ehild,"  Cyrilla  cried,  really  startled,  '"'  '  if  at  all  t ' 
What  an  odd  thing  to  say!"  "  at  au  .' 

"Is  It  ?     ];ut  who  knows  what  may  hai)nen  ?     Who  mn  f  .n 

s.ro„a.st  ,„oi,l,.i,c  c„„v,cl,o„    there  wiU  be  „„  weSgal 

■Slic  spoke  alriiosl  williout  volition  of  her  oiTO_,ometl,:„  , 
>v.t,„.,  l,er  .ee,„ed  to  say  ti,e  words.      I„  theZgic  SIS 


p. 

-•,  "did-did 

ove  lest  be- 
J  diminish  it 
til  rough  nic 
Hist  own." 
ily,    Sydney 

Jnd  of  Miss 

"  but  I  am 
e  hard  with 
ilone  in  the 

ig,  "if  you 
nd  it  bleed- 
and  1  have 


L\  VOU 


may 


uion  to  let 
I's  address, 
ik  for  the 
we  talk  of 
■  •self,  c/iere 
as  Narcis- 


1  Sydney's 
1. 

lay  fixed  ? 

trying  to 
■  ks;  "not 

f  at  all ! ' 

o  can  tell 

have  the 

;dding  at 

omething 
time  that 


TO   ONE    rilING   CONSTANT  NEVER.  133 

was  to  come,  that  was  even  then  at  hand,  she  recalled  that 
involuntary  sentence  with  strange,  sombre  wo^Klcr.  Fo  Cy  Ha 
-she  sa  and  looked  at  her,  rendered  utterly  sueecldess  for  n 
moment  by  this  unexpected  declaration  ^  ^1^^^^'^'^^^  foi   a 

"  Don't  stare  so,  Cy,"  Sydney  laughe<l,  recovering  her  custo 

nary  good  hunior.     "  It's  very  rude.°  Why,  1  may  be   lead  and 

buried  m  a  month !"  ^  "  '^"^* 

"  Very  true— or  Eertie  '  " 

"Or  liertie." 

"Or  one  of  you  may  prove  false  " 

like  n,e.     I  c  u kj  ^ee  tim    Tv    "'      ""''  ^'  •""'^-     "^  ^^^^'^"'t 

'' 'Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more, 
Men  were  deceivers  ever 
One  foot  on  sea  and  one  on  sliore. 
■loonetlimg  constant  never. 
Tlien  sigh  not  so, 
But  let  tlieni  go " 

Cyrilla  hummed  softly  as  she  dn.<<,.,l      ci 

mentioned  -Mrnet  merino   fl7      n        %    ^  '"^    "^^""^  ^'^^  b^^^'^re. 

licr  black  hS^a  clustJ  n'r     '  f  '^"^  '■^''^>'  ^^^  '-^J^'t  comb  in 

lu.r,  a  cluster  of  scarlet  geramum  blossoms  and  velvet 


II 


m  I 


»36  TO   ONE   TiriNC   COiVST.LVT  NEVER 

blood  unwell  '•'      "'  ^'^  "^^''  ^'^^'>'  ^"^^  '"  '"--  '^-v   lami,  t'u 

wiu!^tS:;;si:S;:::;"^,?;;:if  ^^'^  -"  ^°  the  dining-rocn, 

alter  with  Aun    C  a     4,VsJ    r^'  '""'■.^^^T     ^^^''"^'^^  ^"""^^cd 
"  1   s-iv    T    rf;         '    .      M"^'y  came  m  the  rear. 

girls  thi^'HS^^^i,:;:;;:^";^^  up  anytlnng  to  amuse  the 
a  theatre  of  some  ^t  ov  .r  .?'^'^""  '"''^'"■^'^'-  " '^''^^''-^^'^ 
ehgible?"  "'^  °^"'"^  ''^^^  l"^v-n   they  tell  me.     Js  it 

''Ha  fdcMlf.  •;'"';''  f^^^y^'^^^lirte  attend,  sir." 
wort^^oi.:^^^:^;^'^^^  '''''''  ''  '''  1--  ^--^'^t?    Anything 

player^?  "      "^  ^'  ^'"''  ''^^''^'  ""  ^J^^bt,  as  belits  strolling 

^^f^z:^S::izi  ;^^z^;;;  --  -■> «-" '-'-".-  ^..- 

...an,„,;r?  tall' Bl";L"'£r";;«  '"^'^  ?    »''>«  ''"  yo"  -y, 
Scandal'?"  "''^    >™    'o   s>--e    tlie' School   for 

'•i*'"o'J;^:,;i;fri;r::^:;y^.<'-pon;|^ 

nothing  I  „sc.l  ,„  be'sofom    of\vCi'  v'«\'-''m-     "  ■'''"-■'='» 

tlie  theatre."  "  ^  ^^^^^  '^  g'J'I  as  gonig  to 

thcalic."  ■  "-"I"-""  Oivcnsoii;  I  Jdight  in  the 


"■'--'- i^-.cd.,^Th.c  „.;,,,.  no  .o„,l.aho.  30., 


or  anything  of  that  sor 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that  ~si'r 
see,  and    the  season    closes  'to-m 


JIM 


It  is  a  benefit  to-night,  vou 
prin,e  favorite,  amrdicri;;;;:i"';n"T°T-  ,'^^'^"  beneliculr/i;  a 


air  of  a  grand, 
-"pt  down  to  the 

nward  critique  ; 

breeding  to  the 

s  new  land,  but 

le  dining-room, 
Bertie  followed 
ear, 

to  amuse  the 
^■d.  "  There's 
tell  me.     Js  it 


;ht?    Anything 

3f  a   Lover,'" 

nd  the  actors, 
befits  strullin<r 

1  indeed,"  an- 

U  do  you  say, 
•  'School   for 

1  Sydney. 
1-.     "  There's 
i  as  going  to 

ii-ential  host. 
^•liglH  in  the 

about  seats, 

o-night,  you 
elkiary  is  a 
•d." 

ig  a  sudden 
"d  of  con- 


TO   ONE    THING    CONSTANT  NEVER. 


m 


*'  Miss    De  Courcy— you    saw  her  the  other  night,  you   re 
menil)er.     She  plnys  Lady  Teazle." 

"What's    the    hoy  blushing    about?"    cried    the    captain. 
"Miss  I)e— what  did  you  say,  l^ertie?" 

^  "  De  Courcy,  sir--  a  //(7m  de  iJicdtrc,  no  doubt,"  answered 
liertie,  his  natural  complexion  back  once  more.  As  he  made 
llie  r  •i)ly  he  looked  involuntarily  across  at  Miss  Hendrick  to 
iiiid  that  young  lady's  dark  searching  eyes  fixed  full  upon  him 
— a  look  of  anuisemcnt  in  their  depths. 

^  ^  "  She  should  be  a  tolerable  actress  to  undertake  Lady 
Teazle,"  Cyrilla  said,  suavely.  "  I  know  of  no  more  difiticult 
pan." 

"She  is  a  good  actress— a  charming  actress,"  retorted  Ber- 
tie, a  certain  defiance  in  his  tone.  "  I  have  seen  many,  but 
never  one  mucii  better." 

"  Isn't  she  rather  wasting  her  sweetness  on  desert  air,  then  ?  " 
suggested    the  captain.     "  It  seems  a  pity  such  transcendant 
talent  should  be  thrown  away  on  mill-men.     Su])pose  you  all 
start  early  and  so  make  sure  of  good  seats." 
_    There  was  a  universal  uiJiising,  a  universal  alacrity  in  hasten- 
ing  away  to    prei^are.     S([uire  Owenson's    proposal    met    the 
views  of  all  capitally,     liertie,  who  had  looked  forward   to  a 
long,  dragging,  dull  evening  listening  to  Sydney  and  her  friend 
playing  the  piano   or  gossii^ing  about  the  school,    brightened 
up  wonderlully.     Sydney  had  an  intense  curiosity  to  see  again 
the  actress  whose  very  name  could  bring  hot  guilty  blushes  to 
]!eriie's  boyish  flice,  and  Cyrilla  was  desirous  of  beholding  Syd- 
ney's rival.     So  a  hasty  toilet  was  made,  and  the  three  ladies 
piled   into    the    carriage,  with    Bertie,  submerged    in    drapery, 
between  them,  and  were  driven  away  throuf^h  a  whirling  snow- 
storm to  the  Wychdiffe  theatre. 

Half  an  hour  later,  and  as  the  last  bars  of  the  "Agnes  Sore? 
Quadrille."  with  which  the  provincial  orchestra  was  delighting 
liie  audience,  died  away,  there  entered  a  group  that  at  once 
aroused  the  interest  of  the  house.  A  tiutter  of  suri.rise  and 
aciunration  ran  along  the  benches—a  hundred  p,air  of  eyes 
tuintd  to  stare  with  right  good  will.  The  theatre  was  lilled,  as 
\  a!i:;,ian  had  foretold— pretty,  piquant  Dolly  was  so  great  a 
lavoiue  that  they  were  giving  her  a  bumper  house.  All  eyes, 
and  u  few  dasses.  turned  upon  these  late  comers,  who  svvept 
niMo  the  third  row  of  seats,  taking  the  play  house  in  splendid 

Bertie  Vaughan  came  first,  with  a  young  lady  on  his  arm— 


tSB 


TO   ONE   riflNG   CONSTANT  NEVER, 


not   Miss  Owensnn a    fnii     t    i 

..;r  hair.  Miss  oJ.M.son  ami!  ,:  '  •  ,;T''''''"  '''"»«""»  '" 
fm-  as  a  1,1,,  I.or  li,|„  nowi,,,,;,,  »'■;■";'"■■'.  '""ki-g 
A    few  sigmiicant    looks   -i  ^n^;  .;  ,  'r   "  '*^"'^^/^"(l  "iKniorned. 

V-augl,.n  was  in   love  wi  j    \, /I  :'!'/^'"    ^"   •^--  ^'"-'    'U=t..s 
face  to  face.  '  ''"''  ''''-  ^^^''^'^'ss  he  was  lo  niair) 

J^ore   it  all    wi'h    the   Pmibumllv        1        ^•''-     ¥'-"^^  ^^endrick 
seasons'  belle,  luarclenec   by    '^^^V,  '"'^"'^  ^"*  "^  '^^   «J^re.- 

lifllc-'  bell  tinkled  as  they  ZokITT'  '^  7'''  '-^^''"'Vation.    A 
ancl  the  "  School  for  ScLchU '' tl' t^f  "'^'  '"  ^^"-^-'^  ^-^^  ui, 

f'^U  Inst  scene.  Ah-  she  had'  ''  I  ."''"^  ''^'^  ^'^-' ^vatched 
c.'n.edies  played  three  ye  sw,,'  1  "•"''  '>-'^vitching  of 
^i'  ^--  «ood,  and  a  few  ^^-S,;  ""'""'  'V^  ^'^-^'"^  -i^ere 
H"n,,ly  entrancing.  It  was  ah  o  Ur  .  V'  •  ■  ""  ^^'"^'"'^y  '^  ^^'^^^ 
•she  was  neither  prei-ared  nor  nch'  ud  ^  "''\'  '"  ''  '^'^>'  ^-^"^^ 
tinctions.  ""'  inclined  to  make  mvitlious  dis- 

.  ''^"  <'ilj^;orbed  (Vid  she  become  t^.,^    i 
c.l.al  object  in  conuntun^a^]^t'l"  f'T' ^'^ol  her  pnn. 

^^-  stage.     A  tunudt  oTa,         ,se  f^^^^^^^^^^^^^     ^ -'^'^lo  appeared  on 
mg  (  harmingly  in  the  nionnn        V""      "' '''"' '  ''^"<1  '>oIly  Jook 

Ah  !  pretty,  decidedly  !  "  w-^s  Mi,'   r  r'  ^'  ''."'^':- 

ganced  at  Jlertie  VangLan.     Yef t  le    elT 'T'^  '  ^''^'"^^''^-    ^he 
f  le  blue  e\'es  were  ahVirt  n  smfl  wtV        ^^"-^^il'-^  face  harl  lit  no 

g  anco<l  at  .Sydney.     A  sort  of  n      .;   S^.  "'"'  '"^'^'^'-       «'^« 
of  absorption  ;  a  sort  of  L^ravity  he   f  I  ;  ""f ''  '''''''>'  '^'^  «»sh 

'iS.:"i|;r-  s'^T::^'  ^^''"^^^  --"        "'■  "^"  '''''' 
•»  ooi  little  S\("   Cvriii.,  ,1,        , 

f^^ther  should  insist  npc.M  '  ;  r''"''^''  ■'''  '^  '•^'^^''-^'-  '^ard  your 
<"■  "o-  Yon  don't  lo  e  hi  :  fi  ^"^  '"/'^■'■^^''''''  f"''  'i^-^  "'lu^^her 
-vonr  heart  all  the  same  J  C;;^,:!:^^"''^'  '^^'^  ^^^"  -"  '^''  k 
^^e   bean.iful   as  Venus  herse  t^^v  Vr' '^ 

mc  over  for  I  "  "-"'  ^'^^^^  ^'^^d  Carcw  would  throw 

iW   S;:'t-    ^^^"y  ^i;l   her   best,  and  received  ap. 

i<'^^-i.     Thesnu-le,isn    Lf  ;^:t'-r   "'"'^  ^  ^^^^'--l  -* 

oi  quiet  aiausement,  deepened  on 


,1 


^^'\y,  wearing 
111  blossoms  in 
>'^""iin,  looking 
'1(1  iinadornecK 
•s,  were  iiKci- 
Je  the  .-ictijs 
was  to  nuurj 

iflcrinnr  treinu- 
-'i-ss  ilendrick 
r  of  a  three, 
tliniration,  A 
't;iin  went  up, 

wly  fluttering 
^  she  watc:he(I 
"-■witching  ol" 
heatre  where 
■'3'('iH-y  it  was 
'  ;i  I 'lay.  and 
nvidious  dis- 

?ot  her  prin- 
M'l'L'ared  on 
^"^oWy^  look- 
^'i's  3-outhftiI 

lo'iglit.  She 
-  iiarl  lit  up, 
was  on  his 
ii'^ly-  She 
^y  tile  flush 
■  seen  there 

liard  your 
ifc  whether 

will  break 
tress,  wei-e 
Jiild  throw 

ceived  ap. 
ichel  or  a 
opened  on 


TO   ONE    T/I/NG   CONSTANT  NEVER.  139 

Miss  Hendrick's  lips_a  smile  that    nettled  Bertie  Vau.rhan 
1  he  great   screen-scene  came,    and  at  \Iiss  I)e  Cm.rc.'    A^^^^ 
and  tl.e  actn,g  that  followed,  Cyrilla  absolutely  lauglK.;   ab    k' 
You   ..eemwell  amused,    M,ss   ilendrick,"  Bertie  said    -il- 
gressively,  an  an.^ry  light  in  his  blue  eyes.  '    ^ 

"I  am  well  anuised,  Mr.  Vaugnan.  I  may  safely  sav  this 
performance  is  a  treat.  J  n,ay  afso  safely  say,  I  never  saw  a 
comedy  so  thoroughly  conu'cal  before 

"  V'      don^t  like  it,  Cy  ?  "  asked  Sydney.     -  Of  course   after 

Vaughan,  I  thought  you  said  they  had  some  tolerabk-  perfo   „ 
ers  n>    h,s  com,;any  ?    AVhat  has  becou,e  of  then,  to-   igl  t    -' 
.h    I     f   ",':''^^':"^'^  •«  Pl^'a^-'cl  to  be  fastidious.    For  my  part   I 
l-nk  M,ss  l;e  Courcy  plays  reuKirkably  uxdl,  and  gives  m'omise 
ot  becommg  m  the  future  a  yery  fust-class  ;rtiste^     'vlyZrl 
colkrt  this  IS  not  the  Prince  of  Wales'  Theatre  "  ^ 

re  V  th  nk  Ir  V^"T'^^^  num's  evident  chargin.  -  And  you 
ruUly  tlunk  Afi  V^aughan,  that  lAliss  l)e  Courcy  plays  well  and 
gives  pronnse  of  becon.ing  a  popular  actress  ? ''  ^  ^  ' 

^^  J)o  not  you.  Miss  Hendrick  ?" 

"Most  deci^dedly— most  emphatically  not.     If   she  lives  for 
fifty  years,  and  spends  every  one  of  thein  on  the  stagL^,    he  wil 
not  be  a  wh.t  better  at  the  end  than  she  is  now.     Slfe  d  es  no 
"S^l^l!::^  ;^-nts  of  a  good  actress.    Pers.  Jl     ^h:^:;  Z 
.^nort,  too  stou.,  too  florid,  too— may  I  say  it  ?— vulgar.    Mentally 

^e  V    fc  onf"  °"r^^f  ^-''-  "^  '^--  h-^cl,  she  does  not  kno^J 

'' Bv  no  m  r  '>      ■   f\\  ^  ''\^  ^"^^'  >-°"'  ^  ^'-^'^  ^^''^^  stop." 
u  uf     "J"'^'"'.'    ^''^"^^^  ^'^'•■t'^''  ^'efiantly.      -  Go  on."  ^ 

tlvn   is  H '  ^7^"'/^"^  y^"  "°t.  ^*^^'  l^">v'  flat  the  screen-scene  fell  ?- 
And    h     ,        ?•  '""''''""  '".  ''^"  play-she  made  nothing  of  it. 
And  she  ,s  making  eyes  at  the  house  all  die  while-a  fatil  mis 
ta  e      An  actre^-,  should  be  the  character  she  represe     s  ai  1 
tterly  ,g„ore  her  audience.     And  she  minces  in  her  vvdk'  si  e 
talks  Knghsh  with  a  Yankee  accent;  she  is  coarse  in  vo  ce'a  d 
nianner ;  she  hasn't  the  faintest  conception  of  Tla  y      A  "l 
eialle  '  singmg  chambermaid,"  with  traininrr   .be  n.i4^  make 
a  tolerable  comedienne,  never  1"  °  ""  ' 

criii.-r  f!!''^'''"'^  ■'^l-'ntence.     But  it  is  so  much  easier  always  to 
criticise  than  to  do  better."  ^ 


140 


TO   ONE    T//IXG   CONSTANT  NEVER 


I    beg  your   pardon,    I   could    do  very  nuu  h  better"  re 
spondcd  Cynlla   coolly.      "  |  lived  a.noP,.  theatrical  people  all 

yl.te  hetore  1  ca.ne  to  Canada,  and  was  preltv  tl.orou,ddy 
(inllul  in  liie  riuhnients  ot  the  profession.  Once  1  looked  tor- 
ward  to  treadnig  the  boards  myself  before  my  aunt  channvd  all 
that.  If  1  were  in  Miss  I)e  Courcy's  place  to-niuhi,  l"  .-s„r. 
you  J  woud  pay  Lady  Tea/.le  much  better.  liLn't  look  , 
disgusted,  Afr.  Vaughan,  it  is  perfectly  true." 

Again  she  laughed,  more  and  more  amused  at  Bertie's  Wx. 
t.Ued  face.  Uie  curtain  had  fallen,  and  ]5en  Ward  had  left  his 
seat   and  gone  out.       tiertie  knew  what   that  nu-ant-a  <,nie? 

gal  e     by  Cynla's  contemptu'rus  criticism,  yet  unable  to  resen 
ush'bT"  ^^.1^^""''  ^^^"^-'^  clesperatel/ to  break  away  am 

Pi  V  ^^" '!";  ,  ^'.•^^^"^^  ^^f'     '1''^^-'  tvvo  girls  were  discussing  the 

play,    C)  Ilia    in  an  undertone  burlesciuing  Miss  J)e  Courcv 

for  .Vlney  s  benel-it.     That  was  the  straw  t<^  much  ;  X^Z^I, 
n  you  11  excuse  me,  Sydney,"  he  said,  pointedly  i-uorin-r 

Sydney  s  friend,  "  I'll  leaye  )ou  for  a  moment.     There's  a-er 

-man  down  at  the  door  1  wish  to  speak  to  " 

n  Uhout  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  turned  and  walked  out,  with 
s  usual  negligent  saunter.     Two  minutes  more,  and  he   na,  e 

h.s  appearance  in  the  green  room,  in  time  to  bJhol,    1  is  Hv!xl 

von?     n        ^^,f"'      ^^'".'^    '''"''   ^^'^'^  ^  ^^^ol  »od,   -low  are 
the'dark  onef  "'  '''''''  '''''  '''"'  >'""  ^'^^^'  ^^  -'^^'^t.     Who's 

BeilllJ'uirnirhi'"!:;'  l'"  ''''"!'-"^ ""''  ''""''y  *«  '^"'^-'"  ^^t--t-d 

ca    e  m  ?     S  '  \  "''  '^"'  '"^^^'^''^^  ■''  '"^~^^  "^   all-sin^^  e 

n    w       itr'A  1°-'  "'"'     ''  "'-^"^'^  ^''^  ^^•'-  -as  laughing  at 

K;r:;-du;d  ;^:e  ;^;:sn'h?r^::;;ter  ^^'^^^^'^  ^^"-' '  ^^^^^  ^'-^ 
writhi  J  Do!;;  '''i  shett t:rr  r  f'^  "^'  ^1  ^^^^^'"  ^^^^ 

1;,,.      r       Yi     '      ,  '• '^""  ^"^^'t-'d  everv  time  I  onened  inv 

l.p.-/cuuld  sc.  IKT.     You  had  better  go  back  to  'the,"  Mr! 


'ER. 

Ii  I)cttcr,"  re 
ical  people  all 
ty  ilioroiiylily 
■  i  lnr)kc(I  lor- 
It  <liaiiL,H'(l  all 

ii,i4'i''  '  >'-surc 
Don't  look  HO 

t  UcTtic's  \\\\. 
il  IkuI  Icfi  his 
■aiil — a  (|iiiet 
'ted  uncasil\', 
vblc  to  rcsfPt 
-■ak  away  and 
lisciissing  the 
i  Dc  Courcy 
:h  ;  he  arose, 
jdly  ignoring 
'here's  a— cr 

:c-d  out,  with 
uid  he  made 
I'ld  his  rival 
bouiiiiet. 
!,  "how  are 
ght.     Who's 

w,"  retorted 
re  in  capital 
in  my  life." 
es  you  have 
"  J)o  you 
— since  she 
t  to  stay  at 

ly;  "you'll 
41  il  lie  is  to 
laughing  at 
lould  think 

:lress,"  said 

opened  my 

them  Mr. 


TO  or^E   TiriMG   CONSTANT  NEVER,  141 

I'sf '":' ^ivi?;?^'  "';'  ^  ^'^^  "^  ^'^^'^>'  '^'-^^^  tall  head, 
w  V  .1  •   ,  *  "'>  "'••^"'1^'  your  lime  here." 

o:Uh      'iVe  wa'tid  7~"  '^'^^^  ^ ^-'^--^  with  a  H-riou. 

o.u   .         1  ve  waited  too  much  of  it  a  readv        Vr.n'.-,.  .,   r>  1 

Dolly,  and  you'll  live  to  repent  it  !  "  ^'  ''  ^''"'' 

He  (lashed  out,  his  blue  eves  lurid  with  jealous  ra-e 

lo<  [-    1  I'r      ''u'  ""r'-  '^'"^'>'  '    '-'  '»  '-  '--•    -  never 
looked  back       He  strode  straight  out,  straight  into  the  theatre 
and  resumed  his  seat  beside  his  ufr.anre.l  ' 

J\\\y  Jingo  !••  exclaimed   Mr.    Ward,  his  shrill  whistle  of  as 
tomshment  cutting  ...eair;  "who'd  have  th<)n.rht  tl  e  ^v  is  so 
"uich   lire  m  .   milk-sop!     I,et  me  congratula  e  yo     l)o  U    on 
your  pluck  m  getting  rid  of  him."  "^      '  ' '     '^ 

"  Keep  your  congratulations,"  retorted  Miss  De  Courcy   the 

ine  furious  temper  she  naturally  possessed  all  afuv    '' anil  I -^ 
me  ci't  rii    />f  11,1./       L'  .1  ami.,      and  let 

J  with  I       V  "-'''  ?'"'"■  "^''''^''■''  '""--l  ^"o'l't  want  them 

i  wish  I  had  never  seen  them  or  you  1  " 

She  Hung  them  at  his  feet. 
:./',!'"7'  'A',">''"  ^^'^^   somebody,  huniediv  ;   "  sta-e  is  wait 

U  o  ;;•:  i;   ■'"'"  "'r^^;  ■''^'^"  ^^^^■••'  '^^^l^-nKuldened  by  the 

n'u^Kls      For  A1^   wl'l  Yt'T^  ^-1 '^l^atting  with  his  twi  lair 

.c;;!^t;iu;^;n^:^'h^e^- 

1  he  end  came,  tlie  bou(iuet  was  thrown  and— accented      ]>..r 

t'^rd  m  '"'  •'  ""'  r^"^  ''  '^  ''^'  "'^^'  --'"-and  s  m'  ll: 
to  the  donor  unmoved.  She  7aas  coarse  (so  had  set  in  the 
current  ot  this  n>ost  unstable  gentleman's  thou-^hts)  si  "  was 
a  poor  actre.ss;  he  wondered  how  he  could  eve?  hat:.  ^nZ 
blind  as  to  think  her  otherwise.  Jf  he  married  her  ^le  w  ,.' 
be  a^hained  of  her  all  his  life  long.      He  was'he  ^.'^^    ^ 

St  on.-:     "       '"T"^^"'  '''''^  ^'  ^^•'^^^'"^'^1  "f  l^i^  ^vife  .all   t  e 

ined?u-       ,    '^T'  '"""^  '"^""^^"^  ^''  ^"'1>^  "'^  h'-^'-   '^^"^nl.      She  was 

c    M  rl''  '?'   vulgar-she    had   horrible    relatives   no 

b  H  7  I'  ^""'^  ""''\'"°  "^  ^'"-^  ^^'"••'^^  ^«  recommend  her  In  t  two 
bold  black  eyes  and  a  hidily-rolnred  ronM)!-- 'ri       '' 

K-.0  >vo,-.h  ,„e  candle  ?  Was  ,hL  t.r™  '  ^i  "ihe  sacri  c^ 
01  Ijonor  wealt,  ami  caste-all  tliat  had  ever  ,na  e  l,U  il^? 
A.ul  ,f  wl,a.  M,ss  Honddck  said  were  true-thrl  Jid  l' 


I 


142 


TO  ONE  rnmc  constaxt  never. 


i  'V 


.-■< 


ill: 


possess  ilu.  r,r>i  dements  of  il.entiical  surcess-wliat  tlirn  ? 
As  lu.,-  Iu,.lKMul    he  wo„lcI  be  a  heggar-a  .niseral,le    J.^ I 

l"nMl.v<l  dollars  a  week  would  be  a  sarrifire  for  a  n,a.,  of  Is 
i>lTca.ana.,  prospects  and  standing_,o  marry  an  actress  earn^ 
ing  a  wretch...   putance  of  ten  or  twenty  dollars  a  week  only^ 

chad    had!     He   clcstcd  Miss   I  Icndrick,  but   he  felt  abso- 
1'  tr  y  grateful   to  her  for  o|,enini(  1"S  c-ves.       What  an   idiot- 

tJ^^  Tl"\  ''!;.^''''',"'-;  '■''■■"^  '^':  I'-'*!  lH-«'n  !     Let  \Vard  take  her 
-greater  tool.  W  „„--he  was  rich,  and  could  indulge  in  folly  if 
he  chose,      for   hnnsdt,   he   would   keep   his   honor  inta<t\  c 
woul(    n.arr.v  Sydney,  and  become  niasler  of  Owenson  PI  ice 
and  the  cap.an.'s  noble  bank  stock.      He  lookecla"        •  t  tV 
her  cheeks  flushed  with  excitement  and  warn.th,  h  -r  ts   s      1 
^I.ng,  her  fnr  ha.r  t:,lling  to  her  waist.   How  prJtty,  hcnv  sweet 
<>;v  rehned  the  was  _    I  lers  was  the  sort   of  b'eauty  years  would 
I>i>l    nnprove-at    ihnty   she   would    be    a   radiant  v   I.eiT  lif 
-o'nan.     What  a  contrast  to  Doily  De  Cou  cy-,^    V)       ' 
su,g,ng.  dancn.g,  coquetting  before  the  foodights  in  her  peasant 
girbn.   the   Moan  of  a  J. over,"   casting    imploring    ,'e 
Klances  at  hnn,  don,g  her  best  to  attract  his  no  ic-e.     hJ-  ,       , 
Hs  g  ass  an,   surveyed  her,  aleelingakin  to  repulsion  withi       i 
He  did  not  know  u,  but  it  was  the  tmning-iluint  of  his  1  fe  hii 
last  chance  of  earthly  salvation  ' 

Jt  all  ended  They  called  Dollv  out,  and  she  came,  ctirtsev- 
ing,  am  w.th  that  stereotyped  s.nile  on  her  lips,  her  i  n,  loriZ 
C7es  s  dl    bent  on    Jierlie.     Put  he  would   not' s -e  her      e  wa^ 

al  o  ut'f.;''';    -^y  -^--'>' --I'l-i'l^'  Miss  Owenson's  b  u    sca,T 
about  her  shoulders,  preparatory  to  going  out. 

1  hrough  the  white,  whirling  night  the/drove  home.     Two  or 
th.ee  nches  of  snow  already  covered  the  ground.     AVinte    hac 
cou,e  before  us  tune.     And  Uertie  in  a  corner  "  pom  ere    in  S. 
heart  and  was  still."  '  uuucreu  in  nn 

nm'sid"  '^riV^""^  ,""''T'''-''  ""'"'^  '"''^'^^*  .^n  end  of  it  all,"  he 
iTved    f  f  di  ''   ^r   /'^'*  '"^'^  conten)ptible  cad  th.t   ever 

n"  To  iuTr;"'"'  %  ^TT  '^'''  '^"  '-■  '^^^^  ^i'>'-'  f-- 

a^e  ac^n  ss  hi  n'f  '''^^^V'""^'  ^'''  ""  V^mvlc.s,  co.nnmn- 
piactactiess  hke  Doily  would  be  sheer  n)adness— a  -Wrl  vv,>h 
h^ers  n.  ^^w  Vork  :,nd  Wychclitie,  and  thecW  k,K,.S  l^  e 
bcsdes.  And  1  wo.ud  tn-eof  herin  n  n,or,th  '^he'-  •  s  i.  V  n 
and  exactn.g  as  tlu-  very  dickens.  Ves,  by  Jove  ^  P Wh ;:^^^ 
over  the  actress  and  marry  the  heiress  !  "  ' 


what  tlirn  ? 
;iI)Il',  scvdy, 
hicc  or  four 

mail  of  his 
u'liTss  caiii- 
vcck  only — . 
t  an  cHcape 
c  f»'It  al)so- 
t  an  idioi — 
ard  takt'licr 
e  in  folly  it 
r  intact,'  he 
ison  riace, 
:ross  at  her, 

eyes  spar- 
liow  sweet, 
•ears  would 
y  l)eauliftil 
3or  Dolly  I 
ler  peasant 
[,',  i'enitent 
He  |)iit  up 
rt'illiin  liini. 
his  lile,  his 

le,  cnrtsey- 
■  imploring 
er,  lie  was 
blue  scarf 

.  Two  or 
V^iiiter  had 
ered  in  hi^ 

it  all,"  he 

I i  1.1 1  ever 
s  done  for 
coinnion- 
girl  with 
)\vs  where 
as  jealous 
I'll  throw 


**///S  HONOR,  ROOTED  IN  DlSirONON,  STOOD."      .43 


ciiAi'ri'.R  x\a. 

'ms    HONOR,  ROOTKI)    IN    DISHONOR,  STOOD." 

jYDNfKY    sat  very  silent    and    tl.oughtful    d.Min.r    the 
II    lM.mewar<l  drive,  lyn.g  back  in  her  co^y  coma,  a  ,1 
watching  the  white,  whirling  night  oufsMe.     A  ' 

conscious  of   licnie's  good    resolutions,  her  tho  „d  is 
"-••^'  ninnin.  m  an  entirely  opposite  groove,     if  anyth  n    1  v 
been  wanting  to  open  her  eyes  to  the  true  state  of  M,-.  V      i,  v,'- 
altect.ons,  U.night  at  the  .he..tre  had  opened  then       S  fe  h  , 

Wked'!;;  r  ^\i/"^^^^^  ^^r^y^^  >-  '^-'  -r/^iny  j-^ 
looke  at  her  She  undersloo.l  the  secret  of  his  brief  Absence 
as  well  as  he  did  luiMselt  ;  there  no  longer  ivinained  a Vl  n  1.  In 
!'-•  mnul  He  cared  nothing  l^.,-  her, 'and  "  care  v  ■  v 
great  deal  lor  this  dashing  actress  ^ 

be  so  very  angry   and  he  ini.ht  forgive  hini-perhlps"  ' 

l.i  t    here    Sydney  stopi,ed.     Papa  would    be  most    trein.Mi 
ousy  angry;  papa  would  never  fV,r,ive  him  to  thedayof  h^ 
(  eath.     She  could  never  '\.\yc  tell  nana  the  truth  ■        ,1 

no,  I  could  not  bear  that !  "  ^  ""^'''"^'  ^^''  "^^'~ 

The  pretty,  gentle  face  looked  stran-elv  troubled    n^  P     .' 

helped  her  out,  and  she  ran  up  fhe  s-  J  a,  '  '■? 

How  wintry  and  wild  the  i    .rl,H,,rr  '         ,'        ^^"   ^''^"   '^'''^• 

up  n.k-blaci  in  the  whl'mg'^hilonir "^~'"  '''''  ^^^"'^'"^ 
L.a])tain  Owenson  had  sat  u,,  for  the  return  of  his  narean.    A 


I 


144 


"ms  HONOR,  ROOTED  IN  DISHONOR,  ST007J,^ 


Si   • 


Iji 


^  1 


N 


"Well,  httle  one,"  he  said,  "what  is  it?     Hn^  t  n  i    -r      , 

straUrh<^  r^^Sne"^:?:!  "'-S"  "'  .^'''^^'  ^"^  ^^  -"t 

ancUork;  Bertie  sedLfl^^;^^  '^''^''^  ^^er   knife 

"I  flo  mn.r  ;        T";        ''^''  '"  "'^^'•*^'0"S  tiiuninh. 

could  forg  e-F^^^^^^^^^^^  i  ,  f  Vf '  ''r  • '"^'^  ''^^"^-  ^^  ''^"^'y  «"« 
"  How^lid  you  d  t  V  "'  '^""  '-^"^  ''  ^''«1'  '^^'^'-^'- •'" 
speaks  so  S,li7''  ?i^  s.^  r,^'"""'.  "'"'^f '  ^^^  "'^""^  ^^-'-^ie 
Gently  sat  ar  l^/elll^  p?!  .il^'S'  ^"^^  tf^T  7^' 
n;akes  l.r  out,  or  was  the  <s'ho^  forScanill'^  "t^^^ 

noonefeircaliennonL^  '"  ^'\"^^  addressed  genei^uly, 

"and  Tad;'TJaile1.h':r  ^'"'^^ff'"  ^'^^^  ^ood  lady  said, 
it's  a  very  moA  phv  msdV  l^^^^^Y  ^eil.  I  don't' think 
ing  of  that  ^Se    M,  'i  i'^'f '  ''  "''''  °^  ^^^''-^^^  ■'^'^"^k- 

screen  fel  and  tl  ef  shl  was  I  ?"'  ''''\  'f^''''^  ^^'^^^  ''^- 
Mr.  Surfaces.  One  had  t o  fe  1  T  >'''  ^^"''^""^'  ^"^'  ^'^^^  ^"'^ 
ashamed  of  lersx^f  If/  "^''''■'  '^^°-  ^'^^"  '""^ed  so 
f^ought  that  1  unlida^i;!;;^^!^:;;?'^.^'^^  Hendrick-,on 

^;^^t:^Ii::;!:.^:i  l^^i  -pned  Cymia,  that 
that  I  laugh  now  in  recolk,4  i  cVif  r ',  ?^''  T'  '  "''^^  ^^""^^ 
l)e  Courcy  evcessivelv     no<-  "  '""''  '"^^  ^''"  '^^'"^"^^  ^^'-^s 

l^aps,  wIk/ is  an  oU  r!;~T ,  '"^  "'"^^'  ^'  ^''■-  Vaughan,  per- 
acc'iuaintanJe."         '^  ^"^^"^'  "^^^^  ^'^'^>'  '"^'^'^  indeed  for  a  fu't- 

uf  ab:ohJ!^i;:;r^'"'  "^'  ^°°^^"^  ^^--  -^  ^-^  -^h  a  glance 
^^^^  ^laliciou.  little  devil  1 "  he  thought,  '^  would  like  to  chok^ 


STOODV 

them,      ^^l•s 

cliicken   and 

ind,  hut  Doll^ 

'•      IIlt  I'athei 

se  doting  eyes 

I-ady  Teazle 

i,  but  it  went 
■ed  her  knife 
iss  Hcndrick, 
11  ph. 

iidy  will  lose 
_A  dandy  one 
"ool,  never ! " 
vhoni  ]kTtie 
il  genius  evi- 
:  the  star  lie 
disappoint- 

Ir.  Vaugiian 
d  general!)-, 
It  Ciiar  who 

d  huly  said, 
don't  think 
urse,  sliock- 
e  to  a  niar- 
\  when  the 
md  the  two 
looked  so 
drick — you 

■yrilla,  that 
;  " so  good 
dniite  Miss 
ighan,  per- 
nor a  first- 

h  a  glance 

c  to  choke 


"///^  HONOR,  ROOTED  IN  DISHONOR,  STOOD^      145 

fail'J''"'  '"''''  ""''^  ''"'''*  '^"   ^°"  '''^'"'  ^0"t-nued   Sydney's 

"  J-  thi'ik  Miss  De  Courcy  is  very  pretty  and  very  popular  • 

>nt  of  actors  and  actresses  1  am  no  judge.    Mannr,a,  did  vou  see 

lany  Sundcrlnr.d  w,th  Augusta  Van"  Twiller  ?     I  wonder  if 

they  really  are  eneaged  ?  " 

n^S'^Hl"  j^^lk^'-fted  to  the  Sunderlands,  and  Kertie  was  safe 
again.     He  drew  a  deep  breath  ;  his  eyes  had  not  been  opened 
I     second  too  soon.     He  was  suspected  even  by  Sydney  ^    Fo 
th.s  obnoxious  Miss  Hendrick,  her  keen  black  {-yes  saw  every 

could.'  '''''  '"""''  """'^  ''°"^'^   ^"  '^""   ^^^'-'^  '^  sh^^ 

"But  that  slie  shall  not,"  he  thought,  as  he  said  good-night. 

rvlinn'''"'"!  ?  '^'%/-°«'"'  '-I'l^'  his  example  was  followed  by 
Cynlla  and  Aunt  Char.  For  S3-dney,  she  lingered  yet  a  little 
onger,  seated  on  a  hassock  at  her  father's  sidef  her  yellovv  lead 
ivmg  on  his  knee,  her  blue  dreamy  eyes  fixed  on  the  fire  Tor 
a  n.oment  or  two  he  watched  the  Ihoughtfi.l,  childish  Yace  in 
suence  ;  then  his  hand  fell  lightly  on  thellaxen  hair. 
.    •  ^^''''^^•^';'A'^'>'^'^"l'e   asked-so  tender   the  harsh   old 

o,,ewas!     "  What  troubles  niy  little  one?     For  you  are 
tui.ble— I  can  see  that."  ^ 

'il^e  way  was    opening   of  itself,  and   Sydney  felt  relieved 
She  1  ad-  been  thinking  anxiously  how  to  begin 

'•  Irouble,  papa"  she   answered,  taking  the  hand  fondiv  in 
!;;  1;  her  own.     '^  No,  not  trouble  ;  that  ts  too  strong  a7ord 
i  loiible  has  never  come  near  me  yet." 
;^  And  pray  Heaven  it  never  may.     What  is  it,  then  ?  " 
V  ell,  papa,  1  am—what  is  the  word ?— wonied.      Tust  the 
least  bit  m  the  world  worried."  •'  ^ 

;;  About  what  ?  "  he  asked,  quickly.     -Not  Bertie?" 
i^es,  papa,  ]]ertie  and— this   marriage.     Don't    be  anrrrv 

A  i. oiiK-wha   incolRTcnt  speed,  !     Kathcr  not-wliat  ?  " 

Bai)a  laughed. 

young- 


a  married  lady  ought  to  b 


girl 


Old  ?     On 


(,'  s 


e  wise  and  sensible  and  old 


-ill,  you  know  :  and 


age  111  yoiir  e>es,  Pussy? 


uleas  ot  age  differ.     What 


m 


ay  seem  a  ripe 


r 


ii 


Ml 


14C 


-ms  HONOR,  ROOTED  IN  DISHONOR,  STOOD.^' 
''::::'U'^Z.}^^-'^  i^  ^  ?«-'  ^ge  to  be  warded,  if 


one  must  he  married  at  all.     But  1  do 


especially  when  one  doesn't 


rath 


er  s( 


vy  Home  with  you  and  mamma  just  as  I 


t  see  why  one  must 
wou 


seem  to  care  about  it.     I 


Id 


Mamma  and  I  intend  you  shall  stay  h 


am. 


von  are  "  '         " ■'  "°"^^'  ^^'^^'^  "s  just  as 

off  .ncan  no,v.  .,  [his??™,,,',?    ' Wvu',"V       "V"'^"'-'? 
about  llcitic  Va„..|,a„  ? "  ''*'-  J""  'I'scovci-I 

w^^^-Swi:;;:n-;j;^-^-^ 
•'wipiry-'lisirAfur^^i.^^ 

over''  Swh7     "^'"""^'^^^^'^'""•^^"  ^  ''^^^'  '^-t  'li^^-yin  the  nntter 

oyer     Sylney  answered,  her  voice  trenuilous.  "Papa  I-     Wr 

care  for  Hertie— m  that  way  "  ^    '    —        '^  •• 

"In  what  way  ?     Falli,;.  in  love,  do  you  mean  ?     ()h   if  .hat 

''I  ;^^^  '   '^ '=  "'^ ^^''"'" ''^'^^"" ^'^^^'^ this?"   "■ ' 

i  li.'nk  u  .s  reason  enough,"  retorted  Sydney,  a  trillc  indig- 


tfk 


h 


TOOD." 

2  married,  if 

y  one  must, 

it.     I  would 

11." 

th  us  just  as 

J  at  i)resent. 
ifc.  J'lit  off 
Wliat  differ- 
)cginning  to 
I ;  and  1  am 

ily    upright. 

he  is  much 
I  face,  Cap- 
bout  it  one 

he   liasn't 

■ak   h'ghtly, 
arose  over 

tliat  made 
[  know  of, 
when  you 
'  bre;',king 
Jiscoveied 

ler  alarm  ; 

It  WOllJcl 

ame   ever 

repeated. 

he  matter 
— 1  don't 

)h,  if  that 

love  tliat 

Are  you 

lie  indig- 


n 


I 


*'IirS  HONOR,  ROOTED  IN  DISHONOR,  STOOD."      147 

nantly.     *'  I  may  be  romantic  if  you  like,  but  I  sliould  like  to — 
to  love  the  man  1  am  going  to  marry." 

Captain  Osvenson  lay  back  and  laughed,  the  thunder-cloud 
quite  gone.  For  a  moment  he  had  been  startled  (boys  will  be 
boys,  you  know),  but  after  all  it  was  only  a  school  girl's  senti- 
mental nonsense.  He  patted  the  fair  llax-head  as  he  might  a 
child's. 

"And  this  is  all!  Well,  I'm  very  glad.  I  am  afraid  you 
have  been  reading  romances  in  the  Chateauroy  Pcnsionnat. 
Love,  indeed  !  Well,  why  not  ?  he's  a  tall  and  proper  fellow 
enough,  a  young  gentleman  of  the  period,  with  all  the  modern 
improvements  ;  parts  his  hair  in  the  middle,  wears  a  nice  little 
moustache,  and  an  eyeglass,  lemon  kids,  and  a  cane.  He  can 
sing,  he  can  waltz,  can  dress  with  the  taste  of  a  IJeau  Brummell, 
and  has  a  i)rofile  as  straight  as  a  Creek's.  Now,  what  more 
can  any  young  woman  of  the  present  day  desire  in  a  husband  ? 
What  is  to  hinder  your  loving  him  to  distraction  if  you  wish, 
since  that  is  a  sine  qua  non  ?     It  ought  not  to  be  difficult." 

"  No,  I  daresay  not,"  Sydney  thought,  her  eyes  tilling  sud 
denly.  "Miss  De  Courcy  tinds  it  easy  enough,  very  likely. 
Oh  !  how  cruel  papa  is  !  " 

"  Well,  my  dear,  you  don't  speak,"  her  father  went  on,  bend- 
ing down  to  catch  sight  of  her  face;  "are  you  listening  to 
what  1  say  ?  it  ought  not  to  be  difficult." 

"  I'erhaps  not,  but  I  don't,  and — that  is  all." 

"What!  cheeks  Hushed,  eyes  full,  and  voice  trembling.  Syd- 
ney !  w/iat  is  this  ?  Is  the  thought  of  marrying  Bertie  Vaughan 
so  hateful  to  you  ?  Have  you  let  things  go  on  only  to  throw 
hun  over  at  the  eleventh  hour?  Is  this  only  a  girl's  cajjrice, 
or  is  there  some  reason  at  the  bottom  of  it  all  ?  Speak,  and  tell 
me  the  truth.  If  he  is  unworthy  of  you  1  would  sooner  see 
you  dead  than  his  wife.  But — if  he  is,  by — ,"  a  tremendous 
quarter-deck  oath,  "he  shall  repent  it  !" 

There  it  was.  If  she  told  the  truth  she  would  ruin  Bertie's 
life  forever — if  she  did  not  tell  it  she  ruined  her  own.  Tell, 
she  could  not,  no  matter  what  the  cost  to  herself. 

"Oh,  }\T.pa,  how  cross  you  are  !  "  she  said,  in  a  petulant  voice, 
that  she  knew  would  bring  him  down  from  his  heroics;  "and  I 
wish  you  wouldn't  swear.     It's  ill  bred,  besides  being  wicked." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sydney,"  he  said,  suddenly;  "so  it  is. 
I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear.      1  beg — His  !  " 

He  lifted  his  smoking-cap  reverently,  then  sank  back  in  his 
rhair. 


143 


III 


If!   5 


'1 

:j 

11 

i  > 

"=i 

i        i 

ill 

;  1 

1 

i 

i 

•    ! 

"///^  //aVC^/..  ^^077:7;  /^   Z>/,y/o^^^,  sTOOn,, 


^vl^at's  the  odds?     J,ord  I    u  din  '      n  ' ''''"^'  '""^^-     ^^^^^^'^  ^'l- 
«s    another,   if  „ot    be    a-!!^ fd;'^^^,^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

slH)uldr/t   apply  toi.ien      Ifr,      V  '''''>'    "'^^   "'^''^'i'^-    rule 

-•  no,  then  I'nLy  as  ::^1  nnr^JT  ,;'"'"^  '""^'^^^^■'  ^^'^^^'-^ 
1  know  hin,,  anyluMv  dn  is  L  ^^'' ';'''*-^  ^' ^^''''  Please  you. 
elopedfron/sduo  vk  av  „,?"^  """^''^^  ^'^'^■'''^^  Leonard 
after  sl,e  was  Hrst  in        uctd      1  .'^^^^T'^r  ofthe  (own  two  weeks 

can,e  hack  d.at    1  c  w-      hl^^^  '''"  '^^'^'  '"^'  "'l^'-^"  «'^e 

Pn;,>crly  .ac,uaint:il  win   h^^hu  1"  uf  'Xwl  '""^^  ^'"  ^^'^^^ 
uuh  ]5ertie,  and  won't  ]nv<^  fV   7  .  ""  "^  '^'"  'ic(iuainted 

Tin  In-s  ^vifi"  '  ^^'^''  ^'^^  ^^"""^'^  of  cultivating  iuln  when 

'l.an  the  law  allows-^'ou    s  r  rf  i/tli^      ""/,  ""^r  '''''''  '^'•^^■"^ 
for  itself,  I    suppose,  mv  In      '  I  'i^Y,foinKl  that  out 

Jn  llie  world  aline  •  b    'dm.    '  ""  '"'^'''  "■°"'^'  '"'^'<^'  'i'^  way 

and  a  very  excellent     oun    y'  ?  u";;^?  ""T  °"''  "  '"'^'"^"  ^"^' 
li"n,  and  1  like   the  lad      H/hn?  ,       ^T   ''''>''  ''''-*   '^"ow 

yon  his  wife,  and  Tl/e  IMace  hk  I,        "r^'r -^^'^^  "•'  ^°  consider 
be  quite  the  thi,v/t7tJ  row  I      ,  '  ^"''  ''*''''  ''^"^  ^^^^'^"'^I  "ot 

-on,  and  it  is  a  Httle  te  in  drTu.^"'  '''  ''''  ''^  i^-^- 
i-i't  clever,  and  I  don't  h.  L  ''^Y,  '^^''''■''  ^"''^  '  ^^^■'^'^'^■«.  he 
lawyer  or  adoctc^;!;:;;  .^w'^^^^^^:^';^--  ^^\^  f^  in-  we;e  a 
-^lon't  get  any  foolish   sew    m.:,, m  ''  "^>'""'  ^'^^^^  <^"e 

the  contrary;  c4d,  fo  pi  v's  ake  i  'r'^^'Y  "/^'^  >'"^"-  '^^'^^^  ^o 
wife,  don't  expect  too  urh  A  '  ^^  'T' ''^'"^  '^^'  ^^"  "acting 
^Peak  to  you;  Pe^C^b^^  If,^- ,^^';-;|-  He  doesn^ 
i3t '•  ^'^  1-  takes  to  nn.ch  lor  .J^',:,  £!,,  ^^J^;^^^ 

to  speak  to  UK'  ?     Oh         T     ,,      '    r  f"  ''^'"^  '^^"  ^""^  to- 

''i'oolishcln-ld!     a;   ft^;^lfV'^«'^?^^^ 
value,  or  „,ake  her  bh.:;!      '  Tn  ^^  n"su  f^'^'S'^^  1^'''"«'« 
^^hv^n.i  an.  gone,  if  vou  were  no    Va  ^.'du    '    "%     ^'"^  ''^"  ''''^ 
a  victni,  to  some  subtle- ton-,    d  fruf  "■'^'''  ^'''"  '"'^^'^^  *all 

you  will  l,e  very  rich,  n,^S   .'^^^i;:;^'^'-'-- '  ^-you  know 
'^'ore    worldly  wisdon,    (han  a"  blbeP  ,"'•'■  "^^^'^^^^as  no 

oauL.     i>uiie  IS  not  a  brilliant 


M 


"///S  IlOmn,  ROOTED  IN  DISHONOR,  STOOD  »     149 

matrh— not  at  all  the  sort  of  man  I  would  have  had  him— but 
he  IS  ours,  and  we  like  him.  I  ihink  he  will  make  you  a  tender 
hu.s:)ar.d,  and  the  fortune-hunters,  by  and  by,  will  have  no 
chance.     Believe  me,  it  is  better  as  it  is." 

"Yes,  1  suppose  so,"  Syduey  sighs,  hopelessly— fate  seems 
closuig  around  !ier,  and  it  is  of  no  use  to  strui^^gle.  "  Fort^ive 
me  for  troubling  you,  papa  ;    I  won't  do  it  again."  ^ 

"There  is  only  one  thing  in  the  world  tliat  can  trouble  me  very 
greatly,"  her  father  answers,  "and  that  is  to  see  my  little  girl  un- 
happy.   Are  the  doubts  all  gone,  and  will  you  take  Ikrtie,  o'r " 

"  1  will  do  whatever  you  think  best,  papa,"  is  her  answer,  ajid 
then  h.e  holds  her  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

"  1  leaven  bless  my  good  girl ! "  he  says,  softly.  "  Now  go  to 
bed  ;  it  is  close  upon  one  o'clock." 

Sydney  goes,  a  glow  at  her  heart.  After  all,  just  doing  one'3 
duty  and  smiply  obeying  brings  its  own  reward.  She  is  (luitc 
hai)py  as  she  kneels  by  the  bedside  to  whisper  her  innocent 
prayers.  Jt  must  be  all  right,  since  she  is  sacriiicing  her  own 
will  to  please  her  father— since  she  is  pleasing  her  father  oa 
earth  shemust  bo  pleasmg  her  Father  in  heaven.  For  ]iertic, 
she  will  be  to  him  a  wife  so  devoted,  she  will  give  him  a  heart  so 
tender  and  true,  that  she  will  surely  make  him  happv,  surely 
wean  him  from  all  passing  fancies  for  other  women.  And  so, 
with  a  smile  on  her  lips,  she  falls  asleep  like  a  little  child. 

Hut  Captain  Owenson  lies  awake  long  that  night,  thinking. 
One  result  of  his  cogitations  he  gives  them  at  breakfast  next 
niormng.  Sydney  shall  welcome  her  friend  with  a  party,  and 
introduce  her  to  the  best  Wychcliffe  societv.  The  stately  old 
sai Or  has  all  an  Arab's  notion  of  hospitality.  He  likes  quiet, 
but  he  IS  ready  to  throw  his  house  out  of  th.  windows  any  day 
to  pleas.;  the  guest  who  breaks  his  bread. 

"Nota  large  gathering,  you  know.?"  he  says:  "just  an  off- 
hand  ottair— say  Thursday  next.     You  and  mamma  can  make 
out  your  hst  this  morning  and  have  them  delivered  before  night, 
lial  wii,  give  four  days  to  prepare— (luite  enough  in  this  primi- 
tive neighborhood,  1  should  say." 

•"  ^!v''f'  ^  <-lo.ll'i'ik  you  hare  the  most  beautiful  inspiration  '" 
CI  les  S)  dney,  with  a  radiant  foce.  "  How  did  you  know  Cyrilla 
ana  1  were  pining  for  a  party  ?  " 

She  goes  to  work  delightedly  the  moment  breakfast  -'=  over 

Twll'"""'  ''""^  ^',''''  ""-^liertie,"  she  calls,  brightly;  and  when 
Bei tie  comes  makes  place  for  him,  with  a  depth  of  shining  wel- 
come  m  l.er  eyes  he  likes,  but  does  not  at  all  understand. 


ISO 


V:i 


"///S  //O.VOA',  ROOTED  IN  D/S//ONOR,  STOOD » 


a^^!L"'■'''l•^''l  "'^^^■'■^^''^"^l  'i^''-  =  h^^"-  "'-vture  is  as  far  above  his 
as    Ihe    sunht  skv  above   the  snow-whitened  earth  out-doors! 


She  thinks,  as  he 'sits  l)esi(|, 


her; 


ii 


"He  is  the  one   man   of  all  men  I  am  ever  to  care  for      r 
wan  -oh,  1  do  want  to  n.ake  him  happv  "  '     ^ 

and   MiT  r'"";--  T  '""  :^'''"""  ''^"^'  ^vll'.h-spatdied.     Then  she 
and  A  ,ss  Hendnck  go  off  and  hold  a  pow-wow  on  the  snbje rt 
of  feathers  and   wampnm-of  their  dresses  and  a.lo  1.     ha 
and  7- .  ^"n  ^^''''  ^^^"^"^^'^  '^  ^'"^"'^  -'"^  Ka  "the^co  k 
Cloak  over  his  shoulders,  his  stick  in  liis  hand. 

Ihe  morning's  fme,  Bertie,"  he  says.      "J'H  take  vonr  nrm 
for  a  turn  on  tiie  jjia/./a  "  ^     ^  ^^'^ 

or  so  he  thmks,  and  is  about  to  shp  on  his  wris  s  thofJo   Svdnev 

littk  HvZ^^in   hI^;1  '"'f  fT'  '^^^'""•"S  to  melt  and  run  in 
mue  iivulcts  m   the  heat  of  the  noon  sun.     Thev  walk  sl,>wl^ 

"  l,ortie,  Sydney's  been  home  over  a  week.    Have  vou  anri  ^h^ 
settled  upon  your  wedding-day  ?  "  nave  you  and  site 

kect'l'tt-ely  c^'ef'"'-  ="  "'"''•  ""^  ''"'"'''  f™"'  "'-""S  «>ose 

Sydney  I ''         ~^'''''  '^''^"^«'  aghast-"  wants  to  break  it  off! 

take  it  in'''%/    '°  ''^^^^'^'^'^'y  "^^^  that  he  cannot  for  a  moment 
take  It  m.     /A  may  tin-t,  n,ay  play  fast  and  loose  with  his  f2  te,  s 
may  c         inplate  even  running  away  with  somebody  d  '    b  [ 
>'  ^v<      y  to  want  to  break  with  him-Sydney  i    No   he  .'it  J 
It  up;hecannotreali/.e  it  ->unt.y  .    i\o,  lie  gives 

^f  .1, ,    ,     .    ,  •,•  y  "'  "^  ^^^'ii«.  and  has  some  u  rli^h  notions 

nca  state,     of  cot.tse,  I  could  never  think  of  forcing  her  in- 


\ 


V  I 


ood:* 

above  his 
out-doors. 

re  for.     I 

Tlien  she 
le  subject 
ling,  that 
he  cook  ; 
head,  liis 

your  arm 

he  would 
s  of  steel, 
r  Sydney, 
ed  to  be- 

k1  run  in 
Ik  slowly 
'of  nutli- 
ks  in  the 

1  and  she 

ng  those 

dn't  like 

she  has 
f." 
kit  off! 

nomcnt 

fetters, 
Ise,  but 
>e  gives 

ged  me 
uiiage. 
!  Hi!  ions 
le  niai- 
iier  in- 


\ 


'■  riS  HONOR,  ROOTED  IN  DISHONOR,  STOOD."     151 

clinalion,"  pursues  this  artful  old  seaman,  carelessly  ;  "and  it  is 
never  too  late  to  draw  back  before  the  ring  is  absolutely  ou- 
She  would  prefer  it — she  even  appeared  to  hint  that  she  thought 
you  would  prefer  it  too." 

"  Siie  is  mistaken,"  cries  Bertie,  thoroughly  startled,  thor- 
oughly alarmed  ;  "  greatly  mistaken,  altogether  mistaken.  Give 
up  your  marrriage  ?  (lood  Heaven  !  Captain  Ovvenson,  you 
will  not  listen  to  such  a  thing  as  that  ?  " 

It  seemed  to  him  like  a  new  revelation  now  that  it  was 
brought  before  him  from  the  lips  of  another.  Sydney  wanting 
to  throw  him  over — his  little  Sydney  !  And  then  Owenson 
Place  and  all  his  hopes  for  life  !  Bertie  Vaughan  actually  turned 
pale. 

"You  won't  listen  to  what  Sydney  says,"  he  pleads;  "she 
doesn't  know  her  own  mind.  Not  love  me  ?  Well,  of  comse 
not,  she  hasn't  had  a  chance ;  we  have  been  separated  foi  the 
last  five  years.  1  was  so  sure  it  was  all  right  that  I  didn't  pes- 
ter her  with  love-making.     1  was  so  sure " 

"  Ah,  yes  !  I  daresay,  a  little  too  sure,  perhaps.  It  doesn't  do 
to  take  too  much  for  granted  where  a  woman  is  in  the  (question, 
be  she  seventeen  or  seven-and-thirty,"  says  the  cynical  captain. 

"  iJut  it  isn't  too  late  yet,"  goes  on  Mr.  Vaughan,  in  hot  haste. 
I'll  talk  to  Sydney  ;  I'll  convince  her  of  her  mistake.  /  want 
to  break  off  the  engagement !  By  Jove,  what  could  have  put  so 
pre[)osterous  an  idea  into  her  head!" 

"  Yes,  what  indeed  !  That's  for  you  to  find  out,  my  lad.  She 
seemed  tolerably  convinced  of  it  too." 

"It's  Miss  Hendrick's  work,"  exclaimed  Bertie,  resentfully; 
"confound  her  !  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  as  the  cciptain  turned 
savagely  upon  him.  "Ik  low  she's  your  guest  and  Sydney's 
friend,  but  a  serpent  on  the  hearth  to  you  and  a  false  friend  to 
Sydney  if  she  tries  to  poison  i.er  mind  against  me.  Of  herself, 
Sydney  would  never  have  tiiought  of  so  absurd  a  thing.  Miss 
llendrick  dislikes  me,  and  i  nuist  say  it — I  dislike  her.  She 
knows  it  too,  and  this  is  her  revenge." 

"  Be  good  enough  to  leave  Miss  Hendrick's  name  out  of  the 
question,  if  you  please,"  say  the  seigneur  of  Owenson  Place 
in  his  most  ducal  manner.  "As  you  say,  she  is  my  guest, 
and  nothing  disparaging  shall  be  spoken  of  her  in  my  presence." 

"At  least  1  will  go  at  once  and  speak  to  Sydney,"  says 
Jieriie,  excuediy — "ac  once  !  It  is  intolerable  to  me,  that  she 
should  remain  one  moment  with  so  false  ari  idea  in  her  mind." 

But  the  captain  holds  in  this  impetuous  wooer. 


'  1  ■'-■re's  „„  I„„TV.     Sv.ImoJ  vW,  ''■"'  •■"'■■''"•-■<'  his  <;n(i  • 

ecn  speaking  to  y„„.     j^^.t  ,„"  ,',;"-'•  •''--■  "'.11  si.spoct  J  l,.ivo 

*';  ;".^l.t  of  ,1,0  ,,:u,,,  .n.k  ng  y.  „  ;,.|f  t''?'"''-'  ??"  "•'•'"  '""» 

I"  ilw  mciii,ti„ie.     Then  liroiH,  , ,       , .     ■'K'''-''-':>l>l>--  as  may  he 

'■•■Ip.^ls  p-t  hor  .„  nacle    ,"-■!;;'■/*■■"  "f  "'>-■  -^PProaciing 

')";=<  ovolion  if  yo„  can    h!  ;  ^'  ="  ■'  "'"""ce   her  of  your 

!-l-c«ive   .oilcues^,!;:'  Sr"  lej.       ■'"■  'l"^'*'"'  "f  '"i' 

S^  ;™&,hS"ni^"  f"^^«"^ 

;.'f  «^a.Ies  an^  t:;tn^es^^  .g^ J^f  "^'  ^'^^^-'^  ^  ^'^  -^^-t 
'^•'•^;<  ^v,ih  by  tuc  talk  of  1  f  S^j  ^"^  'n.portant  to  he  intcr- 

'\"t  ;.n.  loath,  for  the  t  u?h  ''■'  ^'""^^'  "^^^'^-     So  he  stay 

>^'ny  ace  to  face  tn  the  V  -Sic  HcM":?"^'  f  T^  ^'  "^^'^^^^ 
;  ce  anses  before  hi,n,  msy^a  ^  •  „''  :^:-"'-^-  .  ^'^'^'i  then,  as  .hat 
»^'V'cr  see  or  drean.  of  a..iin  '?  S  ^''^!''"'"g.  a  face  he  inust 
'"^M^los,  with  a  sort  of  .n-fK  '  If  i  ^'',?^^  ^  P^^^h  anion^  the 
as  he  cares  for  DoIIyl^h  ,;  ij,  ^  """^^^'^'y  ^'are  for  SvdnJJ 
Ward  will  niarrv  her  ,,,    i        .        "^     ^^^''^^^  that   she  is  i     .    "^ 

.on  riace-.,isi,.,„:ed  and'  e'fo..  IIL.^'W'-^"^'"'''  "-- 
^- "o  easy  n>al,er,  for  she  ,  fo  ^f  H  ■"-■"''  """>'  'l'"'^'' 
«t.  He  groans  dismally  a-iin  as  I  ,i  ■  "'  "°'  '''  ''""I"  "<" 
not  resign  her  claim  n,,un  f,  ,  v'^i  """''''  °^  ''•  Slw  will 
^■"■'-■"'"g  fro.n  ihc  strai.ihV  n  „f  '"""  '''  '"''««''=■  Afler  a 
v-T  hne  f„„  f„,  a„.hiieCbul'  1°  ,?;"'"•  "»'  -"i""'''  ">ay  he 
'I  '"-■  i.Kul  ke|,t  his  fain   ,vi  i,  s'dr   1  '°  '''''>'  '"  "'e  end. 

"""y  it  would  have  saved      n'r  '""'=''  >"»'  ^  <"«'ce  of  a 


f 


* 


s 


L 


all, 

# 

y  be 

1 

^mkI. 

-f 

of  a 

^ 

_ J 

% 

f 


TOOD." 

'1  Ill's  sleeve 
I  Ill's  cn([ ; 

you  speak 
><-'ct  1  have 
1  wait  until 
^^  may  he 
M'roaching 
i-'i"  of  your 

very  true, 

round  be- 

M'l^'S  and 

n  of  their 

liats  and 

t  Sydney, 
Iy>  papa, 
yks  inno- 

^  subject 
be'  inter- 
li<^  stays, 

meeting 
r  as  tha't 
be  nuist 
long  the 

Sydney 
i!'  Hen 
1.  And 
seeing 
'ing  iiis 
-ost  slie 
'Vluit  a 

out  of 
Ou-eii- 
y  quiet 
'ubt  of 
lie  will 
cr  all, 
nay  be 
t-*  end. 
e  of  a 


when  things  were  a     I  e     wo  s  ""T  ''^'  ^'^''''^''   ^'"■'^^'^^  "^ 

rass  somehow     the  e  wo  ,1  '  T''  S"''  ""^  °^  ^''^^  '""- 

"l>lHM;,e  Dolly  in  some  way— eet  her  ontr.f  W,-       ivr 
wedchng  was  over      After  th.Tl,      , ■  .  -  ^^r^'^'^'ifft-"  until  the 

V ! ".,  i. "kf         "  '■"''  ""'  ■•"""= ;  "■""■•  '-•"""Ch  to  tl.ink  of" 

*  *  *  * 

.:>'cr' dllf^h"^^^,,^''^-^^^^  -^  ^-«  ratding  up 

'I'H-r.  The  houses  a  1  ,li  '  r  ^  ^^'-■"son's  hospitable  front 
I'ave  been  do^  n  ^w  S  a";  ^^1 '"  ^^"i^-^vonders 
l)^'cn  invited    the  t,        r  .L.  t^^'-'niWy  large  company  had 

c:iety  and  ^, on  ^,':^'""""^t,^«>  of  course,  of  country  so- 

he  dul  do^t  wh':;rhVdKl  doTt     '  '"' '"  '"^  ^"-^  °^  ^'^'"^^  «^^-^' 

^  %  jj  . 

fill  iiiglit.  """^  ^'=  "-"""^y  """  same  evout- 

ai.oi'r'''who'cv«''i;,:L  ' """''  v-""  "■'■="  >°"'''=  '''ikiiig 

Courcy.  "   '""'«'"=  »"y"li<-'re?  "  retortol  Miss   D? 

aio  bidden  to  tie  feast    vra,  ,  ,  r  i"  '"'',"■'■,  ""''  "^  "'yclicliffe 
li...'  ..old."  ' '  ^°"  ""''  '>  "'y  »"lly,  alone  left  out  in 

"  '""  °;r^""  ' "     A'  =■"'""'  "f  d.a.  dieaded  and  detested 


154     "///.y  //OXOA',  ROOTED  IN  DISHONOR,  STOOD" 

nam.'  Dully  looks  quickly  up.     «'  [s  Miss  Owenson  civinc  a 
party?"  she  asks.     «' Wiicn  ? "  ^       ^ 

"  'ro-night.  Nothing  very  extensive,  you  know.  Wine  and 
sweet  cake,  cards  and  music,  dancing  and  tea.  Miss  .Sunder, 
land  s  going—saw  her  yesterday,  and  she  tokl  me  about  it 
J)eticed  shabby  of  them  to  leave  me  out;  but  it's  all  the  doing's 
of  the  '  Fair  One  with  the  (lolden  Locks,'  "  says  Mr.  Ward  witli 
cahn  mdifterence. 

Dolly  says  nothini^,  but  Ward  hears  her  breath  come  (luick, 
ihe  cold,  pu-rcmg  November  moonlight  foils  on  her  face,  and 
lie  sees  that  frown  of  jealous  pain  and  anger  that  never  used 
to  he  there. 

"It's  of  no  use,  Dolly,"  he  says,  not  unkindly,  «« of  no  use 
waitmg  for  Vaughan  any  mor".      He  won't  come  " 

"  Who  says  he  won't  ?  "  Dolly  cries,  angrily.      '"'  What  do  you 
know  about  it  ?     You  only  wish  he  may  not.     He  wi/i  conie." 

"He  never  will.  He  is  going  tu  marry  the  ca|)taiii's  daugh- 
ter, he  won't  marry  you.  He  likes  you  best— maybe— it  is^i't 
in  him  to  like  anybody  but  his  own  lovely  seit  very  strongly 
but  all  the  same,  he  won't  many  you.  You  needn't  keep  that 
look-out  for  him,  Dolly,  that  'light  in  the  window,'  any  more 
Jle-never- will— come,  "  asseverates  Mr.  Ward,  a  solemn 
l)aiise  between  each  little  word. 

She   does  not   speak.     She  sets  her  teeth  hard  together,  and 
her  hands  clench  under  her  shawl. 

"(live  him  up,  Doll,"  says  the  young  mill-owner,  good  na- 
uredly  ;   "  let  him   take  his   heiress  and  have  done  with  him 
He  isn  t  worth  one  thought  from  so  true-hearted  a  little  woman 
as  you.     (live  him  up  and  many  me." 

She   looks  up  at   him  with   haggard  eyes,  that  have  a  sort  of 
weary  wonder  m  them. 

of 'himT''"^  ^""  '""""-^  "''''  ^''"''  ''"°''''"S  liow-how  fond  I  am 
"()li,  that  would  come  all  right,"  responds  Ben,  with  his 
usual  cheerful  philosor  hy.  "  \\\  be  good  to  you,  and  fond  of 
you,  and  women  are  uncommon  tliat  way ;  married  women  I 
mean;  they  always  take  to  a  man  that  is  good  to  'em 
JNlei.  clou  t ;  but  then  husbands  and  wives  are  different  some- 

Mv.  Ward  pauses  a  moment  to  ruminate  on  this  idea,  but  it 
is  Lou  complicated  fur  him  and  he  gives  it  up. 

"Say,  Dully,  stop  lliinking  of  V'aughan,  he's  a  sneak  anyhow, 
and  leave   the   sia^e  and   many   .ne.     Many  me  the  day  he 


? 


•S>  J 


V 


0OD» 

giving  a 

Wine  and 
s  Suiulcr- 
al)c)ut  it. 
lie  (luinj^s 
Vaid  with 

nc  (jiiick, 
face,  ;uul 
ver  used 


>f  no 


use 


It  do  you 
7  come." 
's  daiigh- 
— it  isn't 
strongly, 
:eep  that 
ny  more. 
.   solenin 

ther,  and 

jood  na- 
•ith  him. 
;  woman 

I  sort  of 

nd  I  am 

with  his 
I  fond  of 
omen,  I 
to  'em. 
t  some- 

■a,  but  it 

anyhow, 
day  he 


? 


% 


**ms  i/oxoR,  A'ooT/:n  /.v  /)rs/roxoA\  stood."   155 

jnnrru-s  Miss  Owenson-then-  will  I,e  a  triumph  for  you.  if  you 
hkc  !     cries  Hen,  in  a  glow  of  happy  inspiration. 

Hut  her  hpsset,  and  her  eyes  kei-p  their  h;ig-;ird  h^ok 
"Thank  you,  Men."  she  says,  huskily;  you're  a  good  fellow, 
a  great  deal  loo  good  for  me,  hut  I  can't  do  it,  I  can't  give  him 
up.      I  know  he's  what  you  say,  only  I'd  rather  you  didn't  say 
It.     1  know  I  can't  trust  him,  all  the  same  1  can't  give  him  up. 
And  he   shan't  marry  Miss  Owenson.      No!"  her   black   eyes 
blaze  up  with  switt  tlame,  "  not  if  the  wedding-day  was  to  nior- 
row.     Her  Cither's  an  officer  and  a  gentleman.     I'll  go  to  him, 
11  go  to  her,  and  I'll  tell  them  both  what  will  stop  the  weddin-' 
Don't  look  at  me  like  that,  I5en— 1  can't  help  it,  I  wish  I  could* 
And  don't   trouble  yourself  to  come  home  witli  me  any  more 
during  the   few  nights  I  play  ;  it  isn't  worth  while.     You  caa 
never  get  any  better  than  a  'thank  you'  and  a  shake-hands  for 
your  pains. 

"I'll  take  them  then,  and  see  you  home  all  the  same,"  is 
J.en  s  answer  ;  "  but  I  wish  you  would  think  again  of  this  " 

"  If  I  thcmght  till  the  day  I  die,  it  could  make  no  difference 
It  I  can  t  be  Hertie  Vaughan's  wife    -and  he  has  promised  me  I 
shall— it  doesn't  much  matter  whether  I  am  ever  anybody's  at 
all  or  not."  ^ 

"That   for  his   promise!"    cries   Ward,    contemptuously. 

Dolly,  you're  an  awful  little  fool  !  " 

"I  know  it,  Hen,"  answers  Dolly,  quite  humbly.  "J  can'i 
help  It,  though.  Don't  come  any  farther,  please.  I  am  at 
home  now." 

"  And  you'll  never  marry  me— never  ?  You're  sure  of  it  ?  " 
"  }y  "f^V"'",  '"^'■'■y  you— never.  I'm  sure  of  it.  (Jood-night." 
(xood-night,"  says  Mr.  Ward,  and  he  pulls  his  hat  over  his 
eyes  and  turns  and  strides  home,  as  if  shod  with  seven-league 
boots.  It  IS  all  over,  he  will  never  ask  her  again,  but,  when 
months  and  months  after,  he  asks  the  same  question  of  Mamie 
bunderland  and  receives  a  very  different  answer,  that  scene  is 
back  before  him,  and  tl^e  gasdit  drawing  room  "curtained  and 
close  and  warm,"  wherein  they  cosily  sit,  fades  for  a  second 
away.  J  ue  dull,  steel-blue  moonlight,  the  iron-bound  road 
the  frostily-winking  stars,  and  Dolly's  miserable  face,  as  she 
says  'good-niglit,"  are  before  him.  Ah  !  well,  it  would  never 
ao  for  men's  wives  to  know  everything-. 

She  does  not  enter  the  house.  A  ffre,  a  fever  of  impatience 
of  jeaknis  sickening  terror  has  taken  hold  of  her.  They  hav« 
not  invited  her— true  ;  nevertheless  she  will  be  there 


'■=6  ..ms  mxo,;  ,-oo7tj,  ,y  nmro.voK.  sroon.- 

■Ill  is  l..illian,:,>  wiihin    i'.l  ,',',„l',  ,        *■■'"''  ''"^'  '"'"''■"  >"'l"  i 

;tIinost  at  first  L'knrf.     i,,.  ; .    i       .' "'"m".;  in.     Mic  sees  him 
l.ou.e.     A  fierce  snsm,^  h.  ;'"•'""  ""\'    "'^'  '''"'^^'"^'^  "^  "le 

palest  pink,  not  a  jewel  nhom  if  ,  '*  "'^''>' •'^*^^' '«  ^Ir^'^Hed  in 
iKU-r,  only  a  rose  rib  .on  tv  ^  il  r^  . '"'"  ^  ""^^^■'' '""  ^'^^ 
-but  Dolly  tnrns  aX  w   h  '     1      ''^'k'^'-^-'-ss  back.     And  he 

poor  to  de^rihe^/.:y^:f,J  to'in'-"^  i^^^u  re,  words  are 
and  with  his  partner  on  li  ^n  t ^Z^'v  '^V''""''^'  ^'"^'^' 
w.ndovv  at  which  she  staiuls.  ^Ic^y^u'J^-'''^^  '""''''''^  '''-' 
IS  a  great  stone  urn  close  bv  •  !^  . !  ,  "-K"'  ^^''■^^'■-  i"J>^''e 
very  close  to  where  l'  ^7.n\l  A  m',^''^'^  ^'"^)"  ^^''''"cl  ti.s, 
they  renviin  in  the  shadow  o  he  c  ir,  '^  '"",";'^' '''''  ^  ^^  > 
^vIHte.  cold  loveliness  of  u-  i.  t  SI  '  '"''  ^'"'^  ""^  '-^^  ''^<-' 
able  to  see  anything  dist  m-    ^    f or  ,i  'T^",'"'  ^"^"  ^^'^^  •^'^^'  '^ 

eyes-J5er.ie    wrapping         li;:,[^\^^^^^  ^'^^^^  ''^--fore  her 

l>anion's  shoulde is  heai  h'  soon  ^  ?"'^  '"''""'  ^'''^  ^"">- 
rcturns)  the  tender  \o,K;of^,i/;j^Vs  "' /'"'''  '""""« 
words  at  first,  so  lowly  and  Inr.V  S    .      ^  ^^"""'   catch  his 

bruie.  And  she  crouches  h  tent/' h  re  A  "'  "'T'"^  '''^ 
situation   could  hardly  have  bV><  n    i     •     ,  /^  '''"'''   chanialic 

"^^^  ^^<''^1  under  the  inidni^'h  sky  tlu.  "'h''"-  ^^''-^  out  in 
PC'-nnned  warnuh,  the  dancers  n  the  ll"  '''  /■°''''  ''-''^  '-^"^ 
(German  ;valtz  nu.sic  ove  a  1  S  e  '^  ^^'^'"""^''  ^'"^^  "^^'  ^'"^^ 
for  a  while,  though  she  strains  her  ^,r?'V""'  '^'^^'-'^  ^^'^  "^"^^^ 
l>.s;-ice  presently,  ami  she T.-a"     '''  '°  ^'^^"^-     ^^^'^  '^^^  '--« 

'-'^J  your  pi^on.ise  to  br."  w  fe'  and    n' d"  ?'"  '-^'^  >-^"-     ^ 
yon.     Vou  will  not  re.act  ;.:  pii^luLl  U  d^.^""-  '  ^^-» 

your  i;:;^j;  ;;:j  r;, , -:;/Xr'r  '"^'r-^  ''^-'  ^^-^'e,  on 

"  Vou    in.ult    n^VT  ^'^^'O'luU  actress  than  m^?" 

answ.r."  ^^  '''"    'iucstion,  Sydney.     I    decline    tc 


\0'- 


V;r    the 
.  marry 


"///i-  //ONOA\  ROOTED   fV  D/S//0XOf^,  S /OOD."     IS? 

"  Oh  I  nonaenso.  Mortie."  Miss  Owenson  .says,  half  lauKlmv,; 
(lont    uy  hcrou-s      f    s   a   very  natural    .,ucstioM,   1    U,i, 
mng  men  don't  blush  at  the  sound  of  a    ady's   nan...    nor 
bnghtcn  at  the  s.ght  of  her  rac:e  for  nothing,  and  I  h     o'see 

Se;::'i::i;;r':hr:ip^.'^^^-'-^-  ^^^■-'y-->yo;dS 

--)ou  Nv..ii  to  break  oil  our  engagen,ent.  and  a  poor  excuse  is 

bcttc    tl>an  none.     Very  well -so  bo  it ;  it  shall  never  b.  said  I 

forced  your  mchnat.ons,  no  n.attcr  how  deeply  I  s.KTer  myself.- 

He  folded  his  anus  m  a  grand  attitude,  and  stoo,.  drawn  up 

looking  very  tall  and  slen.h-r,  and  affronte,,  and  cross.  ^ ' 

Oh,  dear!      sighed    Sydney,  half    laughing,   iudf    vexed- 

you  r.v//  do  private  theatricals.     No,  I  don't  wo:U  to  Imv  k 
ott-it  would  vex  papa;  and  of  murse  everything  is  arran  'e  1 
and  there  would  be  a  dreadful  deal  of  tal^.     jLides  T  iS 

you .     (;h,   nonsense,  Jlertie  !  "  impatiently;  -no    tender 

^cenes,,f  you  please.  Hut  if  I  thought  you  ,:a.ed 
actress,  or  were  pledged  to  her  in  any  way,  I  woulur.' 
)on     .,  •   not  If  1  died  for  it!" 

a  .i^ii  nondle."'''  ^ "  ^^''"'"  "^'''''''^'  '^"''""«  »'"^'^>''     "  ^^'^^* 
''  U^ill,  yc  3,  I  suppose  it  is  nonsense.    You  wouldn't  .  ^  that  fu' 

ever- X  here  s  Harry  Sunderland  asking  for  me-n.u.st  -'o." 

i.omise  me  hist  that  the  last  Thursday  in  November  will 
be  our  weddmg-day,"  hr  says,  barring  her  u-iy 

in/fo'rTf  ^";f '['^^"^  ^'■^\'  ^'^ir^  the  .  ose-pink  robe,  and  is  mak- 
^/vi    ;    ,      J^;^l'^''-''vtion  she  pushes  past  him  and  out. 

What  does   It  matter?"    she  says,  impatiently  ;   "as   well 

know  i  was-^"    '°"^'  """'  J"''  ^''"''-^  ^^^'^'^  ^^^"^  ^"^^^'■'7  ^« 
''Spooning  here  with  me,"  says  IJertie,  laughing, 
i  es     says  Sydney,  with  a  little  look  of  disgust ;  "  spoonin^ 

nc^  ;:;^;'Un;;;es."^"'^^^ 

onl!f.  f''"'"'"''"',    ^^"''^'f  remains,  a  satisfied,  complacent  smile 

—thLU--"  private   theatricals"  indeed  !  Sydney  ou-ht    to    b> 
here  to  see  them.     A  dar'  .  crouchin.^  fi.,,  -.  sr  rts  n    as  if  o  .t 
of  U.e  ground,  directly  in  n.>nt  of  hin^  'n,e  ;tre:imn^,a:.  !,i^ 
eve-v        ;  l'"i\^^'\;^^^i;' ly  f;\H>'liar  ia.e,  and  a  voice^^that  L-nd 


158       "HL:s  mVEETEST  FRIEND   OR  HARDEST  FOE** 


■ill 


(( 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

UK's    SWEKTKST    FRIEND    OR    HARDEST   FOE. 


r  IS  i:)olly.  White,  unlike  herself,  with  wild  eyes  and 
excited  face,  hut— Dolly!  He  stands  for  a  moment 
r^etrihed,  utterly  petrified  by  the  greatness  and  sud- 
denness  of  the  surprise.  For  the  time  being  carried 
away  by  the  excitement  of  his  new  wooing,  he  had  absolutely 
(jrgotten  her  very  existence.  And  now,  like  a  stage  Nemesis 
Ike  an  avengmg  spirit,  she  stands  here— pale,  menacing,  terrible' 
Jiiit  It  IS  not  a  stage  Nemesis.  J)oIly  is  not  acting  to-ni<rht— 
but  httle  of  the  bitter,  jealous  wrath  and  pain  that  fills  her  sliows 
m  iier  quivering  lips,  her  dark  burning  eyes,  and  the  white  mis- 
ery ot  lier  face. 

"Bertie,"  she  says  again.  I'or,  full  of  anger  and  vengeance 
as  she  IS,  something  in  his  face  as  he  stands  there  and  looks 
at  her,  trightens  her.  He  has  started  back,  staring  as  a  man 
who  cannot  believe  his  own  eyes.     Her  voice  breaks  the  spell. 

Wait  there,"  he  says. 
.  He  glances  quickly  backward,  no  one  sees  him,  no  one  is  in 
sight.     He  stooi)s,  raises  the  window  a  little  higher,  and  steps 
out  upon  the  piaz/.a,  by  her  side.  ^ 

Tlie  round  November  moon  is  at  its  zenith,  its  cold,  spectral 
Iigl.t  glimmers  ,n  the  ebony  blackness  of  the  trees  on  the  hard 

mg  biightness  of  the  house,  upon  the  pale,  stem  faces  of  the 
man  and  woman  who  stand  and  confront  each  other,  licrtie 
Vaughan  wears  a  look  that  few  have  ever  seen  him  wear;  that 
iioWy  l)e  Courcy  most  certainly  never  has  before 

'wnnF"'"w""'\  '"''/'  ''^**'°'"!"^"'^''^"^    ^h'^   "l^^TS   without   a 

at  she  has  right  on  her  s,de  ;  mall  ways  she  is  the  stronger  of 
tJie  tu  o,  nevertheless  she  is  afraid  of  him  nov 

sii  1  n  Itr^'  ""'  ^'^^>'7/'>^'  ^f""''^'     l^^y^^'id  l>is  name  she  has 
said  nothing  as  yet.     Beyond  that  imperious  "  Come  with  me  " 

vvarmunf  "''      ■^'     '^''r,  ^'T  ^'^^^  •^'iy'^^ly-lig'^tod  house,  is 
warmth,    ts  merrnuent,  behind  them.     Tl.e  music  dies  softly 

feVv  !r'it  '     f  T^"'-   ,  ^^''^1'  ''^"  '"■•^'  ^^n.aX\on  of  cold  she  has 
itit  yet  tl  •  girl  draws  her  shawl  closer  about  her  as  she  follows 


'*IIE'S  SWEETEST  FRIEND  OR  HARDEST  FOE:'      159 

Bertie  Vaughan  across  the  wide,  gladelike  expanse  of  lawn  and 
into  the  shadow  of  a  belt  of  trees.  No  one  from  the  house  caii 
see  them  here— the  very  moonlight  comes  sifted  in  fine  lances 
through  the  black,  rattling  boughs,  and  here  the  young  man 
stops  and  faces  h-'s  companion. 

"  AVqiat  has  b/ought  you  here  ?  "  is  what  he  says. 
_    There  is  white,  concentrated  passion  in  his  face,  but  his  voice 
IS  barely  raised  above  a  whisper.     She  looks  at  him  fiercely 
her  head  fiung  back,  her  eyes  afire.     It  is  a  capital  stage  atti- 
tude—if  poor  Dolly  were  dying  she  must  still  act. 

"  You  ask  that ! "  she  retorts,  passionately.  "  I  write  to  you 
and  you  do  not  answer.  For  five  whole  days  you  never  come 
near  me— and  you  stand  and  ask  Avhat  brings  me  here  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  ask  ;  and  be  good  enough  to  remember  that  this  is 
not  the  stage  of  Wychcliffe  theatre,  and  that  you're  not  talking 
for  the  pit  and  the  gallery.  ]]e  kind  enough  to  lower  youi 
voice.  I  ask  you  again,  Dolly,  what  brings  you  here?" 
^  "And  how  dare  yor  ask  it  ? "  she  cries,  goaded  to  fury. 
•  "f'^V.f^  yo^>  stand  ciere  and  speak  tome  as  you  are  speak 
ing  ?  What  brings  me  here  ?  Who  has  a  better  right  to  come 
wliere  you  are  than  I  ?  " 

He  laughs  shortly. 

"The  right  I  grant  you,  if  you  never  want  to  see  or  speak  to 
me  again  as  long  a.  you  live.  If  that's  what  you're  after,  vou 
couldn  t  have  taken  a  better  way." 

She  stands  and  looks  at  him,  shivering,  partly  with  the  cold, 
jxartly  witli  nervous  excitement,  her  eyes  dark  with  terror,  her 
lil)s  white. 

♦'Did  you  think   I  would  stay  away?"  she  asks,  "knowing 
you  had  deserted  me  ?  I  waited  five  days,  Ik-rtie— I  wrote   to 
you— you  never  came— you  never  answered.     They  told  me 
you  were  engaged  to  Miss  Ovvenson—that  the  wediling-day  was 
close  at  hand.      I  knew  there  was  to  be  a  party  here  to-night— 
tliat  while  I  suffered  misery  and  loneliness  there  in  Wychcliffe 
you  were  dancing  and  enjoying  yourself  with  her.     And  I  was 
your  pronnsod  wife,  P,ertie,  don't  forget  that.     Where  you  were 
i  Had  a  right  to  be.     I  came— I  couldn't  stay  away  :  I  thougiit 
It   I  could  only  see  you  for  one  minute,  and  hear  you  say  vou 
Inrgave  me  for  what  I  said  that  night  at  the  theatre— oh !  Bertie 
I  was  sorry— only  hear  you  say  vou  weren'r   tir.vl   nf  ,>,^    .,,,,1 
hadn't  forgotten  me,  I  would  go  away  again  and  leave  you  to 
en|..y  3ourself,  and  ask  no  more.      I  didn't  mean  any  harm— I 
tlKhi  t  mean  any  one  to  see  me,  I  only  wanted  to  speak  to  you 


i6o     ..///.-.^  SWEETEST  FRIEXD   OR  HARDEST  FOE.- 

one  minute.      I  went  up  there  by  tl.e  windoNv  with  ik,  thoii^ht 
el!.^-  -!5''  ^""  "^^'"^'-^^■'^''  '^-•'-^^'«1  I-l  overhead- 

She  iKul  been  growing  hysterical   as  she  went  on,  her  voice 

■ix'^mg  and  breaking;  now  she  stopped,  literally  gLpin/  o? 

breath.      V  .olent  hysterics  were  in.nilient.      in  ImrnbiL  Idann 

vauguan  seized  her  wrist  \n  a  grasp   (hat  left  a  black   bracelet 

on  li.e  (liuvering  ilesh  for  a  week.  Uiacelet 

.  "  II  yuu  make  a  noise-ifyoi.  faint  or  have  hysterics,  Dolly" 
K"  cncd  ni  a  lunous  whisper,  "  1  swear  I'U  uever  si.eak  to  y (  u 
again  as  long  as  you  live  i  "  '  -^ 

in/sol!^'Tn ''?'  'I.'"'"'-     !"■  ^'''  «^^^'''"S  breaths,  a  fl.w  chok- 
ng  sobs,  a  moment  s  conyiilsive   ,iuiyering  of  body,   and  the 
1  onions  moment  was  past.     Then  a  brief  Interval  of    ilence 
(urn,g  winch  Mr.  Vaughan  relaxed  his  hold,  and  mJnta  ^^^^ 
signed  holly  to  a  region  where  the  night-air  is  never  chill  i 

Miss  l)e  Courcy  leaned  against  a  tree,  her  wretched  face 
hidden  m  her  handkerchief,  her  bosom  still  heaving  U  si! 
pressed  sultocatiiig  sobs.  ^    »iui  hup 

k nil ^"^'7'  ''''.r''S''  ''"'■"'•"    ^>^'Si'^^  lie'-tie,  his    blonde    Imnvs 
l^iHt   lu.  month,  under  its  little  llaxen   mustache,  set  in  a  t  ■  h t 
Uiil'lcasant  line,  "tins  is  all  most  awful  nonsen  e.     Yo     In  e 
come  near  makmg   the  greatest  bhin<lcr  of  your  life  in  comin' 

lo'iet;;sl^-he.^^^ai;p^^'^'-^^--''^^>-^--'-- 

i'li^ev^^'l^T'  l"^V''';"  '^''  ""^^^'^'"^^^'  ■'>  ^  ^^i*l-'  voice. 
Ills  e>es  Hashed      In  the  midst  of  his  anger,  while  wishing 

"So  !  "  he  said    contemptuously,  " that  fool  is  after  you  yet 
Sees  )ou  home  every  mght  of  your  life,  I'll  be  bound"  ^ 

mere  is  no  one  else,  J]ertie." 
"All  right   -that  is  your  affair.      Mine,  at  present  is  to  com^ 

;;";/' nony"'.'K  ^^"'  T!^  ^""^'^  ^"  -^'^^'^  -it. '  V^^'Z 

sh-n      n        ^'      ;         "-'  '^" '"'•"^^•"^^'  "o  spying,  no  do^gi,,,.  niv 
^tep.,   no  eavesdropping,  no  jealous  scenes.      1  would  no  me 
"any  a  jealous  woman  than  1  would  shoot  niyself     '    i    soone^ 
you  reah/e  that  the  belter."  iiic  sooner 

The  handkerchief  fell.     She  looked  up  at  him,  the  miserable 
quiyermg  lace  lighting  all  at  once  with  hop,  ■"'^^rable, 

r.Vv '*'''■  "-■  •'•    }''''  ''''  '"^'-"^  ^"  "''^''V  ■  -■  then  after  all  ?  " 
fine.      ^^"^^''^"^  ^^^'^  "'  surj„ise-of  injured   inoceuce-waj 


*'I/E^S  SIVEETLST  FRIEND   OR  HARDEST  FOE." 


161 


■After  what  'all'  ?   I 


ecp  my  word  !     Have  I  not  acted  h 


Ik 

the  first  ?'    Did  I 
our 


am  a  man  of  honor,  Dolly,  and  as  such 


onorably  toward  you  fi„ 
not  propose  marriage  to  you  a  fortniglu  aft 


-as  a 


rst  meeting  ?     1  lave  I  not  treated  you 
'  lady  ?  ■' 


rom 


er 


m  all 


resi)ects  as 


reais  no,v  O  Bertie,  you   have  been   kind,  been  cenerous 

een  noble   toward  me.     I  am  not  your  equal,  I  know-in  s  a 

non^or  education,  and  you  have  treated  me  in  'every"  ay  as  if  I 

•'  Very  well  then,"  pursued  Mr.  Vaughan,  loftily.     "  You  nn 
nagu.e,   perhaps,   what  a  blow  to  me  to-'ni.ht's  escape   is 

con.Kwt;;esirs;:u{d^:c'"^^^'^ '''''''  ^-'•^-  ^^^-" 
be:;;;;;:;,  s::;^;-.:^^^  ^^r::S;j^ii!!i!''  '^''''^^^'  'y  ^^-^ 

Mi'^^n'  ^''^'  ^""^  °^<^;:^'^^'d-     Vou  overheard  what  I  said  to 

vo  rco?,W  S;  t'o"'^  ''^-  •^^^■''"-^^>''  ^^^"3''  '  ^^-'  -^  think 
in  toll.  ;,?  '  •  *°,'-^^^'^'^,^''-"lM>'"g-  May  1  ask  what  reason  you 
liaci  to  be  surijrised  at  what  you  heard  ?  "  ^ 

"  What  reason  ?   You  ask  her  to  marry  vou— denvjns  (hat  von 

care  fen-  ,„e  or  ever  did  ;  n,ake  her  nan'e' the  we  lli  ,?day   ■  n 

-what reason  have  I  to  be  stuprised  !  "  says  Dollv  pu  t  n^/  er 

hand  m  her  head,  her  brain  in  a  hopeless  uuuldle. '    '  " 

I  explamed  all  that.     Call  to  mind  the  night  I  told  you  fullv 

nl.    ^"her  '  rJh^'l  ''  '''''  ^'T'^  '^^'>''  '''  obligadc^"';^ 
Hide     to  hei    father,  how  my  whole  future  dei)ends  upon  his 

"Huuy,  what  he  expects,  what  she  expects,  the  compact  nncl^ 
vA^cn^  were  cluk  ren,  which  I  always  meant  to  rati  y!  wi  ch  I 

nt,l    he  last  mo-nent,  my  intention  was  to  keep\he  n  in  tiTe 

a.k,  hopmg  that  the  old  gentleman  nnght  kindly'die  off  1  efb  e 

he  wcdc  u.g-day.     Meantime,   n.y  full  nUention  of  actin'       y 

KU  t,  the  belter  to  bhnd  them.     That  I  may  one  day  marr    ?ou  a 

ncunan,      asked  Miss  Owenson  to  name  the  da/ to  i^ht  "  ' 

J:\  'T^'  .specciiless.     She  looks  up  at  the  moon'  at  the 

ce  as1  cu  L   th      '''  n-  ""''■  Y^'^ShaW'  han.hon..,  rebuking 
race,  as  It  utters  these  sublimated  sentences,  but  her  dazed  briin 

n.Qie  nopcicsbly  her  senses  reel. 

suhcS  me'M!-Si'  r  ''''  '^''^'?  ^"'^'^"  ^'^^  '"  S'-^tuitously  in- 
fauiied  me,  Mi.,.  De  Courcy,  m  the  presence  of  that  cad,  Ward) 


l62     *<nF:S  SWEETEST  FRIEND   OR  HARDEST  FOE.'' 


iS 


t)i 


soiiie  inklinjr  of  the  truth  lias  conic  to  Miss  Owenson's  ears. 
She  is  jealous,  and  to  appease  that  jealousy  I  spare  no  effort, 
l.et  one  whisper  reach  i,er  fatlier,  and  1  am  turned  out  adrift 
upon  the  world,  without  a  home,  a  jirofession,  a  shilhng.  If  he 
dies  before  the  wedding-day  I  am  provided  for,  can  say  good-by 
to  Miss  Owenson,  and  marry  you.  1  liope  you  are  satisfied  now  /" 

He  asks  his  last  (luestion  in  a  tone  of  suppressed  triumph  j 
his  concluding  arguments  have  evidently  been  clinchers.  ]kt 
Dolly  only  looks  at  him  with  a  ])iteously  bewildered  face.  She 
must  be  hopelessly  stupid  indeed,  but  the  force  of  all  this  for- 
ensic logic  is  thrown  away  upon  her.     She  is  not  satisfied. 

"  May  I  ask,  says  Mr.  Vaughan,  changing  his  tone,  while 
poor  Dolly  stands  dazed,  "  wh.at  you  came  for?  what  you 
mtended  to  do  ?  " 

She  lights  up  suddenly,  she  can  understand  that  question  at 
least. 

"  Shall  1  tell  you,  Eertic  ?  "  she  says,  a  flash  of  her  old  fire  in 
eyes  and  voice. 

"  1  ask  for  information,  Dolly." 

"Then  I  meant  to  have  gone  straight  to  Captain  Owcnson, 
to  Miss  Owenson,  and  told  them  my  storv,  shown  them  my 
proofs,  and  broken  off  your  marriage.  I  know  it  would  break 
It  oft— no  lady  of  honor  would  marry  you  after  reading  your  let- 
ters to  me." 

'1  here  is  an  outbreak  of  triumph  in  her  tone,  but  it  changes 
(luickly.  All  through  the  interview  they  have  not  been  in  very 
allectionate  inoxiniity,  but  he  starts  back  two  or  three  paces  at 
tliese  darmg  words,  and  locks  at  her  with  a  ghuice  that  sends  a 
bolt  of  cold  terror  through  Dolly's  heart. 

"  You  (lid  !  "  A  pause,  an  awful  one.  "  And  may  I  intiuire 
wily  you  did  not  carry  out  your  dramatic  intentions,  Miss  De 
Courcy  ?  " 

"  Oh,  ]V>rtie,  please  don't  look  at  me  like  that,  and  don't  call 
me  Miss  1  )e  Courcy  I  J— I  didn't  do  it ! "  slie  savs,  with  a  gasp. 
jNo,  you  didn't  do  it.     i  a.,k  again,  why  ?" 

"Because— because  1  couldn't,  1  heard  all  you  said,  and  it 
maddened  me,  and  still  I  couldn't.  I  don't  understand  myself- 
J  never  used  to  be  a  coward.  Other  men  have  been  fond  of 
me,  but  I  never  cared  a  pin  whether  I  lost  them  or  not ;  but  I 
am  afraid  of  you." 

'I  he  confession  seems  wrung  from  her  against  her  will.  A 
shgiit  smile  of  coniplaceni  power  glides  over  his  .set  lips  a 
second,  then  it  disapi)ears. 


"IIE^S  SWEETEST  FRIEND   OR  HARDEST  FOE:^     163 

"  Well,  now,  lX,lly,"  lie  says,  "  for  fear  any  such  temptation 
sliould  occur  to  you  again,  let  us  understand  one  another. 
Ilic  e  IS  the  house-whenever  expatiatuig  you  choose  you  can 
So,v  '  r  r  i^'"r''^-'^'-  oy  h's  daughter  ;  you  can  tell  them  your 
stni)  —1  shall  deny  nothnig ;  you  can  show  tliem  my  letters— 
I  Will  not  refuse  to  admit  them.  Captain  Owenson  will  at  once 
order  me  from  his  doors  ;  Miss  Owenson  mil  probably  never 
see  me  agam  while  she  lives.  All  this  you  can  do;  and  the 
moment  you  do  U-the  n^oment  a  word  of  our  engagement  -e ts 
wuKl  through  you,  and  comes  to  their  ears-that  moment  is  the 
last  you  will  ever  set  eyes  on  me.  I  will  never  see  you  a-ain 
never  .speak  to  you  again,  so  long  as  1  live  '  "  *" 

Another  pause.     All  white  and  speechless,  shrinking,  tremb- 

.  °nn      {    ^    ^""'.'^  '''^'"'  ^°  '^"''"  ^'^"'"-     ^"^J'"  ^-^"3  stern  as 
a  .^tone  Kliadamanthus,  this  youthful  autocrat  goes  on  • 

it  you  care  for  me,  if  you  ever  want  to  be  my  wife,  you 

nuis    obey  me  in  wliat  I  say  to-night.     1  cannot  write  to  you  or 

receive  letters  frcmi  you  without  danger;    I   cannot  visit  you 

^v.tllout    instant   discovery.      Theref<rre    I    will    neither    wiite 

nor   visit   you.     You    will    leave   Wyclicliffe    with    the  rest  of 

^he.n,  and  wait  for  me  in  ^<,^s  York.     When  do  the  company 

"In  a  week,"  Dolly  answers,  with  a  shiver 

rn','>Min  V'"' ^""  '''">^''   '"'^^^    ^''^'"^'  ^  ^^'''1  '•<^'»^i"   here. 

Captain  Owenson  may  die  any  day  of  heart   disease-may  die 

c  ore  the  last  Thursday  in  November.     If  he  does,  all  is  right ; 

^tiding  1  will  (juietly  leave  VVychclitfe,  join  you  in  New  York 
and  marry  you  out  of  hand.      I  have  no  more  to  say.      This  is 

best.'"  "'''''°"'     ^""  "'"  ""^'"^^  ^^  ''  °'  "°^'  ^^  >'°"  think 

until^--'  ^"^   ^°   "^"^  ^''^  company,    and   see  you  no  more 

"  Until  the  last  Thursday  in  November— not  quite  two  weeks. 
An  eternity,  certainly  ! "  he  says,  sarcastically. 

l',..-f?iM''\'''''"-  '"  ^"^  '"^"'  ^"^  '''"  ''^^  *''"'-'  ^  shall  be  fearing- 
ci  tie  !  she  cnes  out,  "  you  shall  not  mairy  her  !  Don't  think 
"•     1  will  never  give  you  up." 

He  turns  to  leave  her. 

"1  have  no  more  to  say.  AH  my  explanations  have  been 
tnruwii  away.     Do  as  you  please." 

T  u'nVl''  ^l"''^'*"'  '^?^  •',    ''"'"■^''''^   '"^-     ^  ^''"  f^°  ^s  you  tell  me. 
1  will  trust  you.     Only— only  say  one  kind  word  to  me  1    This 


V 


.'!  f'\> 


i:  : 


I')    ■ 


164     "//A'^-  SWEETEST  ERnuYD   OA'  HAUDEST  FOE:^ 


has  b 


niiserablc 


icen  a  wretched  night,  and,  indeed,  indeed,  I  am  d 


re 


ad  fully 


Sultan  JkTtie  relents.     His  si 


iCi 


Hi;  can  aftbrtl 


ave  is  in  her  proper  place,  at  his 


one  relenting  parting  word. 


'Hou'i  be  a   simpleton,     J)olU-"  I 


e'   says,  takijig  both  her 


hands  m  his.     "  li  1  wasn't  idiotically  fond  of  you,  woul 


all 


ly  i)rospects  in  life  for3-ou  ?    It 


ter  for  me  if  I  cared  for  Miss  O 


don't  and  can't 


d  I  risk 

would  be  a  good  deal  bet- 

uenson   as  I  do  for  you  ;  but  I 


an  end  of  the  matter.     You  sliall  1 
thru   1  promise,  for  the  hundrc 
good  child,  d<W(\  come  here  no  1  ,,. 
wait  for  me  in  New  York.     I  shaH 


and  here  ]5ertie  told  tin:  truth— "and  that 


h  tnae. 


le  my  wiic,  and  no  one  else, 

i\m  now  go,  like  a 

Leave  witli  toe  rest,  ami 

by 


-      .     ^  .,,1,1.,  .H^e  you  once  a  'Oin.  l)v  souk 

"leans,  and  we  sha'l  have  a  pie.:  .nter  good-by  thai:  ihi'^ 
A  nioment  ii'ore  and  lu.-  is  alon-  under  tlie  trees      Out  in  \\m^ 

T^  a  h  ;  ' '""V'  'r  '""^^"'  ^  ^'^"^^  '^  lun-ryiS  towlrd 
t  ic  gau  ,  a  tigu.e  m  u-hose  breast  a  tumult  is  going  on.     Anoer 

P  ilei^d  r-"''  'r'  ^'-P' -1!-^  rcsol^^  h^.  taken  K 

k  nd "he  I  n^v  T      V^  her-w,fh  the  quick  cl:.i.  voyance  of  her 
km  she  knous  u,  an-l  sh,..  means  to  be  even  wiih  h  ,„.     He  ih- 

d  i  ;.  r  1  ''"",^^''^'  ^-'^-^^  >t  nimself  she  knows  it  also, 
Sli""  Jll  he^£in,ot ''  '^"^^  ^"  ^"^^^^^  ^"^^  -  ^-''^  «'- 

He  stands  and  watches  her  out  of  sii-ht.  Half-an-hour  hi<! 
r':;^^;  7 '"  "f---v-he  w-U  be  nnssed,  he  i^^^l^ 

c  on  it  KW""  T  ''  ^'  ""^-  ' ''  ^'  congratulating  him! 
sen  on  J  oil)  s  safe  and  unseen  exit,  when  he  runs  up  the  uortico 
ste-ijs  and  comes  full  upon  Cyni'a  Hendrick.  '         ^  ^ 

idly  t'hnltS  '^r  "'r'  '^;"  '""""^  ^^1^^"^^^'  ^°1^1  ^'^ J  viv- 
ioi>  orient  ixtore  ;  how  long,  who  is  to  tell? 

V^'^c!Z  T'""'^'  ''^''  '^'  '^'"^^^  '^^^'■^  '^^'^  '""^^-  Of  -11  tlie 
"Ah  Air    Vaughan,"she  says,  that  malicious   smile  he   has 

1  rr  I  vT  "Vf"'"  "!"'  "  '  ^"^■^^'  ^-'  --''^1  no  be  h.  the 
"And    o:  vol"'  ^^'^""r'^  ^^>'^'"^->'  ''^•^'^^^'^'  ^'^^^^  y'^^'  ^vere." 

hatred.  "'''    '''  '''^^i'""^^-^'  '^'^  ^'"^'  ^^es  glittering  with 

air;:i;';;ff!^;;:hr  i^'rlnS^"^'"'"^^^''  ^>'''''^  ->'^'  -^'^  t'- 

.,.1,1       mm:    °   '  '  ,.  \';^  P^'^'/'";''  \vere  oppressive,  and  1  never  take 

.  ,.e  Hiuwnhght  iookcti  so  inviting  that  1  have  been  here 

luJIy  ten  1  iiimtes  enjoy  n^r  the  nrosnt^rt        \n,)  t    i      '^^^". '^"-'^ 

J  )'"o  ^"^  probpcct.     And  1  have  enjoyed 


i% 


a 
1 
c 


THE  FEAST  IS  SET' 


t65 


it,"  says  Miss  Hcndiick,  witli  slow 


face 

coim?  out  with  imj  aiKrcnjov  it  too 


I  can  only  rcgict  that  Sydi 


emphasis,  sniih'ng  up  {•<  his 
ley  was  not  to  be  coaxed  to 


iUit  you  can  describe  it  to  her. 


sort  of  whisper.     '<  1  can  imag 


sort  of  thing,  and  every  end  will  b 


suggests  Bertie,  in  a  h 
dly 


ISSUlif 


me  you  really  nuist  be  good  at  that 


No,"  Cyrilla  laughs  ;   "  1  differ.     Y 


e  answered  as  well. 


on  flatter  nic — I  am  not 


ng  what  J 


,,  -  o       7        •   .....V,..       iwu  iKuiei   nic — J 

a    all  goad  at  that  sort  of  thing,  you  mean  describing  wh 
don  t  you  ?    I  never  look  for  other  people  •  1, 
er  own  eyes.     Will  you  give  meyourarm  back 


see, 


et  everv  one  use 


i  tincl  1  have  had  enough  of  moonshine.     I 


Mr.  \'aughan? 


hoi)e  Sydney  is  not 


;,''frl'".  !:',=  j^"'"."^-,^'-  -y  «'-"y  'i.".k  :,i  ha' 


llirt 


ing  here  on  the  steps 


ve  been 

"  Sydney  will  never  be  jealous  of  me,"  savs  Svdnev's  affi  inr,.r1 
vv-t    elaborate  carelessness,  "if  she  is'left  to  lu^S    l^i^^^ 
no  hmg  sn)all,  or  prymg,  or  suspicious  about  //.r." 

1  he  personal  pronoun  is  hercely  italicized,  the  gauntlet  of  de- 
fa  ce  ,s  openly  ilung  at  her  feet.      Miss  Hendri'k  lifts  1  "r  b  g 
lack  e)es  and    aughs  in  his  face,  a  laugh  of  most  unaffected 
thorough  appreciation,  good  hunior  ancl  tnj<,ynient.     A       A^^^^^ 

ym  a  i)leas  lie  it  would  be  to  meet  her  by  moonli.rht  alone   in 
some  nice,  shady  nook,  and  murder  her  in  cold  blood.  ' 


(I 


CHAPTER  XVlIf. 

THE     FEAST     IS     SET." 


"'nX' ta^  '  T  T"  "  r.  '^"^V"«  -nf^^i--- in  a  woman! 
i.  c  }  (U>  takes  Sydney  and  her  obnoxious  friej.d  into  A\ych- 
d.lte-every  day  takes  Dolly  there  for  rehearsal.     Who  is  to 


1 66 


THE  FEAST  IS  SET: 


\m 


tell  liiiM  what  hour  may  bring  them  toircthcr.    What  hmii 

Iliav    "  til)"    .111(1     trll     thoi.i    flw.   ,..K,.I..   .'f *.       . 


ly  "til)"  and  tell   them  tiie  wiiol 


Dolly 


,     i         ,- .      ....  - -  ^.e  «tory.     As  stroiiirly  as  he 

hail  set  his  shifting  heart  upon  marrying  Dolly  a  fortnight  a-o 
Jiist  as  strongly  has  he  set  it  now  upon  marrying  SycLiev' 
Ihere  is  no  love  m  the  .juestion,  not  a  jot;  it  is  simply  a 
matter  ot  money;  u  is,  as  he  tells  himself,  that  his  summer's 
iiKuiness  IS  at  an  end;  that  he  is  "clothed  and  in  his  ri-ht 
nund"  once  more.  ° 

During  those  four  dragging  lagging  days  he  raises  Miss  De 
Courcy  to  the  i.innacle  of   bliss  by  two  visits  ;  he  soothes    her 
with  sweet  words   and    sugared    promises.     She  is  very  (uiiet, 
dangerously  .piiet,  if   llertie  did  but    know  it.     She  takes   lier 
sweetmeats  from  her  master's  hand,  and  says  very  little.     And 
th'-    fourth    day  comes,  and    by  the    morning    train    the  whole 
company,   leading  lady  of  course    included,  leave  Wychcliffe 
Leave,  positively  leave.     Uertie  risks  all  things,  gets  out  of  bed 
at  the  unhallowed  hour  of  seven,  in  the  coldVra'y  of  the  f  o  ty 
November  morning,  and  appears,  blue  and  shivering,  upon  t  e 
l>lattonn  to  see  them  ott'.     Hut  even  this  proof  of  serf;acrilk  n  . 
devotion  does  not  take   Dolly  in.     She  smiles  sarcastically  "l 
she  shakes  hands  with  him,  and  sees  through  his  little  artiTice 
;n  a  moment.     She  is  unaffectedly  glad  to°  see  him  too-I  er 
da. k  face  light.s  up,  and  she  looks  at  him  as  JJertie  Vau-I  an 
most  certainly  does  not  deserve  to  be  looked  at  by  any  wc^.  a 
on  earth       1  hen  they  are  in  their  places.     ^Vhat  a  loi^  S 
of  inhnite  relief  ,t  is  that  Mr.  Vaughan  draws;  she  waves  1  er 
hand  to  him  from  the  window,  look^  at    him  w  th  two  Llemn 
black  eyes,  and  says  in  her  deepest  Lady  Macbeth  voice  : 

lau.diT'"'"'''  ^^""'^'^  °^  ^'''''^^'  ^''^  ^'"''^  °"  ^^'^  '^^'^°^J'  and  he 
ing'ifovef '  ^°"^'"  ^^  "''^'"-     "  ''^-^^^"  ""^  ^'^^  1°^«^«'  V^^^- 

dnf "'  n 'i  ^"l"^'  ""i''^  •'/"  T''^'  '^'S'^  ^1''"^^  ^^^  the  rest  of  the 

day.      Me  holds  forth  at  breakfast  upon  the  beauty  and    ex  l- 

■  ency  o     the  "healthy,  wealthy  and  wise"  principle  of  ea rTy 

Mng.     lo  get  up  by  gaslight  on  a  bitter  fall  morn  ng,  to  crS 

he  ice  in  your  wash    basin,  and  t.  plunge  off  for  a°  hree  mile 

walk,  IS  the  acme  of  earthly  bliss.     IJreakfast  over,  he  in     ts 

pon    escorting   his  affianced  and    her  friend    into    own     o  1 

St  on  high  stools  and   listen  to  iiyacinthe  dry-goods  men  ex„a 
tiating  on  the  beauty  of  lace  and  ribbons  and  artificial  iowJ^ 


»:'! 


t( 

h 
c 

o 
ii 


"  THE  FEAST  IS  SET" 


167 


wiJl  he  to  him  the  siiprcinc  pinnacle  of  earthly  ble.-,se(hicss  1  It 
IS  as  usual  the  othous  Afiss  Hemirick  who  topples  hi/n  down  off 
the  hi-h  horse  he  is  rampantly  riding. 

"A  change  has  come  o'er  the  spirit  of  your  dream,  rather 
hasnt  there?"  she  says.  "  [Jp  to  this  morning  you  have 
obstmately  refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with  us.  A|)roi)os 
of  early  rising  the  theatre  people  were  to  go  to-day— didn't 
Mr.  hunderland  say  so  last  evening,  Syd  ?  You  must  have 
seen  them  this  morning  in  Wychclitfe,   Mr.  Vaughan  ?  " 

Again  l.Iue  eyes  and  black  eyes  meet— again  Mr.  Vaughan 
asks  himself  could  it,  would  it,  he  wrong  to  privately  assassin- 
ate  this  girl  if  he  gets  the  chance. 

"I  saw  them.  Miss  Ilendrick  ;  [  even  shook  hands  with  two 
or  three  of  them.  Are  there  any  further  particulars  of  the 
theatre  people  you  would  like  to  hear  ?  " 

?  None  at  all,  thank  you,"  Cyrilla  laughs  ;  "  I  am  ciuite  satis- 
fied.  In  halt  an  hour,  then,  Mr.  Vaughan,  we  will  pla.x-  our- 
selves under  your  fostering  care  for  the  morning." 

All  Sydney's  artless  efforts  to  make  these  two7riends,  fall  Ihit 
Jt  IS  one  of  the  thorns  in  her  bed  of  roses  that  Cyrilla  will  per- 
sist in  .saymg  "  Mr.  Vaughan  "  to  the  bitter  end.  ^ 

''  I  think  It  IS  really  unkind  of  you,  Cy,"  she  says,  renronch- 

ully  now.     ''Calling  Bertie  Mr.  Vaugh.fn,  just  as^if  he\"wt 

to    marry  me    next  week.      I    am     sure,   if    our    cases  were 

Sol-Hhis.'''''  ■""'"  ''''"''°  ^^'■-   ^'^''"^^  '•'■^'^'^1>'  ''"^'^' 

"  r  am  (piite  sure  you  would,"  answers  Cyrilla,  laughin-  •  "  no 
one  ever  does  call  l-reddy  anytl,ing  but  Freddy,  so  L  as  i  can 
see.  I  here  is  no  comparing  the  cases.  There  is  a  di.rnitv  an 
unapproachableness  (that  is  a  good  word)  about  Mr.  Vau'Va 
that  torbidslhppant  familiarities  with  his  Christian  name  If  I 
were  wrecked  on  a  desert  island  with  your  future  spouse  Svd 
I  con  dnt  call  him  Bertie-not  under  dghteeu  u-.oiuhs  ^  ' 

i;ydney  looks  at  her  friend,  half  puzzled,  half  indignant   half 
mcunec    to   laugh   herself.       Bertie    digni  ied  !      JJe^tle    u,  an 
praxchable  !     lUu  Miss  Hendrick's  .pii^^ical  face  bafH^    1^"'^ 
;^  1  )o.you  hear  from  Fred  often,  Cy  ?  "  she  iiK,uires. 

to  Fr.d'r/  ^'  ';""'■  ^7  •  .  ^'^  •  ''^''''  ^  P^^"'-^^^^-'  it  "Hist  be 
Int^el  l^r"'  "r  '''""'  '^''  ^'SH'  of  pen  and  ink  with  an  honest 
hat.ed  he  never  attempts  to  conceal.      Kach  lett.M-  rnn.nin<  ...•» 

ove  MJwSl'r:;  'T"  ,   ''f^^  ''f'^^y  '^-^--^^f  '^^^  UKzyb^'fulfto 

^old  mk  the  gushing  warmth  of  his  aftectiou-no,  that  is  be- 


II 


Ml 


iCS 


"TiiK  /■■FIST  AS-  sr.r.< 


r;!j;;M:;l-{,s^-iL,!;;t:L;^;s^- 


<11C\V 


I  l> 


1  ut  ,l,u  ,  (cvotum  u„  11,.,1,.,'s  part  was  b„t  iW- f,,,- simil,  ul 
'.liing  Ihc  wo.lJi„f.-aml   on  ll.at  <l  „  Ca  i-,l,   n„" 

din".:;,  a,:;  hit:; ;,'"",''"■■  '""'"•""■°" "' ""^^ "''i '».i".-s >"  ■ 
i^;;^d.d^a\l;:;r''.a„r,;';;i;s-2r^ 

g..un ,hc,„c,..,.„ii», a,ui n."i  .msTi:  ,,r,'''";",r;;:' '"■ 

tliat  „„  „„seako  was  made.     •|1ior<;  wav  ol     r   ,  ,      ■'  'I'''' 

lu   fulfill    f,),-  ihc^lvi;.        1,.  ,,"'•"-,",,"■"""""'•""" 'ilsii 

Aron.la';'  nighl  '~       """'''  !""'"'''>  ''-■  'l'"''^'""!  """l 

I  will",'!'"''""  " '"■  ''"•"  "■•"■■'  """■'•■  "  «"!'  >.,„r  i,u„„Vsio„ 

^rir'n^s:;::"",™ -iir?-^  ■-  '7^  -^^-^ 's;;:l;f  z" 


Ow".!'';,;,?'""'' -"""""^''- '■"'•"-''-"-  '"    -"<!    Ca,„ai„ 


Stay!     i.ook  here!     Wait  a  ■     ,,ir,.  I     r,'s  =.,  I 
vc    a,l  any,l,i„,.  ,„  „.,  wi,l,  w„ldi„,s   la,  rv  ■    ,r  "o  u':"  "^ 


to  you.  siii)crioi    visdoiii. 


■^acK.         ,11  u   be  u  solecism  of  Jlngli.h  w.cklinu  l4 


:us- 
g  good 


*'TirE  FEAST  TS  SET*' 


169 


be- 


\    1 

( 
t 


sarcas,      lly.  b'"<-'uayi,r     concludes  the  captain, 

ti.e  l.otcl  to  sicq,  '^         ^  inclination  to  laugh,  "returning  to 

'would  turn   u,,,  (llo   hst  hvo  d,         '","""^',  '^''^'"  ^'^^'  ^^'^''y 

IMac,  had  nncieriafn  thet;r,  ^;r" Vt.  d-l'  ""^  ^^  ?' 
groaned  mentally  as  he  ihou-rh  <f  ;/  ^*  ^1  /''\'  come— he 
less  harm  would  Je  done  fsomJ  ""''"  "'u"''  Win  there, 
"ot  know,  but  in  some  wa^  •?  1  T'"  ~'?  '^''^''^^  ^^^  h^'  ^^'^ 
out  of  ha  iu's  uav  unHI    h^~  '''''  '^"'"''  '    ■■'  '^"^^  ^^  ^'P  her 

let  I.e.  do  le  •     ors        A    d  ve?  "''  ^  ^?>''1"^'>''*  ^'^'      ^^'^^ 
had  been  of  her,  too  !  ^    '  ^'''°''  ''"'^  ^""^^ '  '^^^^  ^0"^  he 

to  hunt  up  Do  ly^^  o'i'tl  x\TT{  "''""^^  "'^^'•^'^^'^'^  ^^■^''■-* 
whe.Mvith  Dollyflshe  ;  itt  ;,  .1^"'''"?  "'■"^"'"  '^'-^W'^'r  than 
fibre  of  his  h^ln^y     St^Zr^^^^^  "  '"  ^'^^'  fi"^'^^ 

on  hin,  in  New  York    oiVin      d  "^^  '  '^  '''"^  ^'^'^^^  •^'-'t  eyes 

"e  .  let  him  go  VV^  o  w  s  "^'^  1''.'"'"  ^  '•''"  ''^'  ^'°"'^^ 
gang  oi  Kast-sidc  bn'ga  ds^o  liar  h  i  '  '"'"''^  "°'  ^'^'^  ^ 
est  dungeon  in  the  Bo  'eiv  nn  I  •■  m?  '^^^^^'""'  ^"  ^'^^'  ^'^-''^P- 
bancl?"sc>n.evagVe  tLo  ;,^  ^    " ''      hul 

IV. tie's  brain.  T^"  t  wm  M  n^^  ^^■•^^^^•  '^'">  -'^  thronyh 
3>olly;  hemustneveVlr  ,v  In  .'  ^"v''T  "ot  go  to  see 
of  Sydney's  real  estate  and  bi  ^  i  f  ''""'"^  ^P'"'  ^'^  •'^P'te 
and  he  sighed  profound!^  T^  n  '  '^  '''''''  '^  ^'•''"^'  ^''""yht, 
rich,  or  a  greit  actT ^  He  wa^  '  'Tl  t  "^''^  ^^^hy  watn-J 
getting  over  that.  '"'''  ^°"^  °^  her- there  wa.  no 

Monday  mornini?  niii<»       ti, 
^^nived.     He    look' thJc^rs      is' ,''''''  ''^^-^   fate  "  had 
Pleted,  and  started  for     0?;.'    U        '""^''    ^'-^^'^f^^^torily  com- 
t-  Wychcliffe.     A  ..',;,•.  "'^  ^^  "'   ^/-^  ^hree  hours'  ride 

<lamp  paper  he  u-iJr  i  \  ^^at  and  Uiifoldcd  the  morninr^'s 

HO.J  Joclid  he^   '^'It;;:?,; ;;;  t  "r^ '"  '^'^  ^^^  •-<•  --• 

he  sitting  by  Sydney's  s.  ''^I'-nday  nionimg  ?  Would  he 

'^^^^^  a  grand   theatrical         '''^uin'thTJ  -^Y^>  and 

'    ^-  and  poverty,  and  clis.^  ,     .  .churcii--and  would 

tie  could-  not  read.      ;{.,„,  ''''•'",^"  ^"''   '^^^  ^ 

^^^aui    .       agom  he  tried;  again  and 


170 


♦'  Tim  FEAST  IS  SET** 


again  he  failed.  He  gave  it  up  at  last,  and  sat  staring  out  ai 
tho  wintry  picture  Hitting  by.  It  ws  like  a  day  cut  in  .steel— 
clear,  wmdleHs,  sunless,  cold.  '1'],^  sky  was  pale  gray,  the 
earth  frozen  hard,  ringing  like  glass  at  evr-ry  sound.  'Ihe  trees 
stood  up,  tracing  their  black,  sharp  outlines  against  the  steely 
air.  A  snow-storm  was  pending- would  it  storm  on  the  wed- 
ding day  ? 

"Doily!  Dolly!"  She  haunted  him  like  an  importunate 
ghost.  J  ler  lace  was  before  him,  her  voice  in  his  ears  "  Re 
member  !  "—what  had  she  meant  by  that  ?  Ife  hadhu-hed 
llien  ;  it  was  no  laughing  matter  now.  Oh  1  it  meant  that  ho 
was  to  be  with  her  on  Wednesday  night.  He  liu  said  ho 
>yould.  If  the  captain  ihd  not  die.  Die  !  he  looked  of  late  as 
though  he  would  never  die,  as  if  he  had  renewed  his  lease  of 
rue. 

kemember!  I  low  ominous  a  gleam  there  had  been  in  her 
I'iark  eyes  as  she  said  it.  IHack-eyed  women  are  always  ediro 
looLsto  paywith.  Whv  ii.id  she  ever  come  to  Wychclili;.? 
Why  had  he  ever  gone  lo  that  infernal  little  theatre?  WInt 
would  she  do  on  WVdnes.Iav  r.ight  when  he  did  not  come? 
Wonl.  she  even  wait  as  long  as  Wednesday  ni-ht  ?  It  was 
(Hdy  three  hours' ride  to  ^\•ychcI.^^e,  and  trains  were  runnin-r 

bad  told  him  she  would  not  give  him  up.  'ihe  we.lding  hour 
was  eleven.  If  she  took  the  cars  Thursday  lu.  ruing  in  New 
Yoik,  there  would   be  ample   time  to  get  to  cluuch  in  season 

He  broke  off  with  a  i>ang  of  absolute  ph\sical  agony.  He 
could  see  it  all,  that  horrible,  sickening  scene.  SvducT  faint- 
ing, he  guests  :Mnduig  horror-stricken,  the  old  captain,  his 
friend,  his  benefactor,  Iivid  with  fear  and  rage,  Dolh',  a  bl  uk- 
eyed  Nemesi.  wild  and  cli.shevelled,  in  their  midst  her  back 
hair  down,  displaying  her  proofs  before  them  all.  pointing  the 
finger  of  retribution  at  lum,  and  rea<Iing  his  letters  aloud.  'Hmse 
tatal  etters  !  Spoony  beyond  all  .;idinaiy  dei.ths  of  snoonvi.m 
^nd  he-he  standing  pallid  with  guilt,  his  knees  kncickTng  o-' 
gether,  paraly/.ed,  stricken  dumb,  s/ur/^i./i 

He  set  his  teeth.  No  !  if  it  came  to  that  there  shonld  be  a 
rag.c  ending  that  would  take  the  edge  of  the  sheepishness  at 
least.  He  would  provide  himself  with  a  pistol,  load  it,  carry  it 
in  Im  breast  pocket,  and  when  the  awful  moment  ^un^he 
jvcmld  thrust  in  his  hand  hurl  it  forth,  cry  ;  ••  Woman--  euH 
behold  your  work  !  "  and  pull  the  triggei.     There  would  be  a 


m 


"  THE  FEAST  IS  SET»  ,., 

ho  new .,.  ,i,c.  ,ic,„„,  I,:,  „„  „,„  f^  ,'-r  V I  rjr:::,;,' :■ 

.       <!  lc.(.k  a  liack  iuul  drove  eo  lliu  hole     ,,  ,,        '^' ""'■'-^^• 
111  his  lolfl,  iiiiiin,.,!  i„,„  1,1.  1      1  '         ''•  *"""-■  thaiioe 

lo  Ow.nsM     "  r  „  T    '«:k  „„cc  more,  iind  „as  in,l„ 

..f  his  M.  ™, ilhip       """•  '^"'  '"""^''^■""  ""''  "■  five  an  account 
ho  ha<:  bcin  ™  a  vcar  or  M,'    ''i'  V""''  '"^  IV""'  "'  ""'"«l' 

.en  ;;;;it^r:-r'£^-^^-^ 

Vo,,,Wt;,,earlS;r<'>"''''''-^-'<<'ne;   "ha.e  Cjiilia  1 

"  Vfs   f  <lo_hale  her  as  I  do  the " 

iiertie  I 

."It"lt,  c;™"«n  t"  '  AH-  '  "■-■'"'"'  '".^  f™'"  "'-  "-'  "'"• 
1  l'io".ise,o,'sl™slnn„oMf'  ^"'    '■■i;'"'"".'-  "'»•  \">"Khan, 
'hiii't  ,,„,  „  ,    L  t  » ';  L  "Acl"  si    "v  ^  ,<»"  visiling  us,     No>, 
1  <li<ln't  like  her  all  akm^    '  ""     ''""  ™  '"'">">  "^11  enough 

'ovd'rwl;fdon'r;:r,Tkerr^  "ir."™"-  "'  '""'^  *--'^ 

to  you."  *         '"•  ""'^    *'"=^  "over  done  anylhing 

ch,™'V":;'°f'j?X'''«.-";l   »;°"'''"''   -"-"l-or   if  she   go.   a 

toadorasiSel^K^V    M  roi:>  "a'','!,,*"''  ^™  'V'  "^ 
I'lelty  to  look  at  and  iie    .r  ,1,- 1  '^  '""?  Sfoen  snake  is 

«e  .ake  an,ipathie:;„  l',:,;;,u,":;  ^igfuT'  "'    ""'•      "'"^  "» 

"  'i''''  ""'  •ike  you  Doctor  Fell : 
iiiereasonwhy  I  cannot  tell' 

-u-!.^:rr^^:;irt'T.ix'lrirn'»r.""« 

^l_^lan.s  will,  all  the  pleasure  in  life  l"   ^      °  °'  "'•>   '"•'"^'^osi 
on  Mr."va^,i,a„.r"''=-'"'"''''^''  ""  S^J-^'^  I'-,  nuniiiativ. 


173 


"  THE  FEAST  IS  SET.'* 


"  And  so  everything's  lovely,  Syd  ?  "  he  says,  after  a  moment. 
"Nothing's  hairpencd?  '  The  feast  is  set,  the  guests  are  met ' 
all  correct  and  duly  ? "  .  * 

"What  could  liappen?"  asks  Sydney,  gayly.  "  Of  course 
everything  is  correct.  Except  the  weather,'''  adds  the  bride- 
elect,  glancing  api)rehensively  out  of  the  window  ;  "  that's  cold 
and  nnserahle  enough  even  for  the  last  week  of  November. 
Ily  the-by,  it's  a  dismal  month  to  be  married  in,  IJertie." 

"  Is  it  ?  Hut  there  will  be  so  nnich  sunshine  in  pur  hearts 
that  we  will  never  see  the  weather.  You  didn't  think  I  was  so 
l)oetical,  sis,  did  you  .>  Honestly,  though,  if  we  are  married 
on  'I'hursday  morning,  I'll  do  my  best  to  behave  myself  and 
make  you  happy." 

It  is  about  the  nearest  approach  to  a  tender  speech  this  ar- 
dent bridegroom  has  ever  got,  and  Sydney  laughs  at  it,  but 
With  a  little  tremble  in  her  voice. 

"  '  //  we  are  married  ! '  What  an  odd  thing  to  say,  P.ertie  !  " 

"  Oh  !  well,  one  never  knows— one  may  die  any  day.  '"  In 
'he  inidst  of  life  we  are  in  death,'  and  all  that.  One  never  is 
certain  of  anything  in  this  most  uncertain  world." 

She  looks  at  him  in  wonder  as  he  makes   this  cheerful  and 
bridegroom-hke   speech.     He   is  lying  back  in  an  easy-chair 
Ins   legs  outstretched,  a  hand  thrust  i.i   each  trouser   iwcket   a 
dismal  look  on  his  face  that  suits  his  dismal  words,     lie  is  think 
ing  ot   Dolly. 

"  Would  you  care  much,  Syd,"  he  goes  on,  looking  out  of  the 
window  at  the  dreary  grayness  of  the  dull  day,  not  at  her  won- 
dering face,  "if  you  lo.t  me?  You're  not  in  love  with  me  I 
knosv— no  more  am  "— "  I  with  you  "  is  on  his  lips,  and  he 
barely  catches  it  in  time — "no  more  do  I  expect  it  just  yet  • 
but  we've  been  jolly  good  friends  an<l  comra.les  all  our  lives— 
quite  like  biodier  and  sister  ;  and— would  you  be  sorry  if  anv 
tiling  happened,  Syd?"  ^ 

She  comes  close  to  him,  laving  a  timid  hand  on  his  shoulder 
aud  looking  down  at  his  moody  face.  ' 

'•  1  don't  know  what  you  mean,  IJertie.     If  anythiivr  han 
i)cned  to  stop  our  marriage,  is  it  ?"  ° 

"  Yes.  It's  only  a  sui)i)ositious  case,  of  course,  but  would  vou  ?" 
"  Vou  know  I  would,"  she  answers.  "  I— I  am  not  in  love 
With  you,  as  you  say,  but  indeed,  IJertie,  I  do  mean  to  be  a 
loving  wile,  and  make  you  happy.  1  would  be  dreadfully  sorrv 
It  anything  hai)pened  to  break  olT  our  nKirriage  now.  i  leail/ 
believe  paita  would  die  of  the  disapi)ointment." 


f  f 


V  THE  FEAST  IS  SET.** 


ns 


ixny- 


tti 


"  Alwnvs  pai)a  !  " 

He  sits  cvct  hastily,  for  just  at  that  moment,  enter  Miss 
Mcndnck,  ami   all  the  softer  sentiments  tike  um.  H,         V 
win,s  and  tly  at  sight  of  her  .lerulin-M^l^ck  eU        ^l^^n.scW.s 

A  1  the  minor  details  of  the  important  event  are  minno,1  o  . 
by  th,s  time.       Cyrilla,   Manne  and   S.Ksic  S  „k  kMan  1  n  I  I 
support  the  bride  throngh  the  ceretnoniall^  "  th  n   s'sIk  can 
survive  with  only  three  bridesn.aids.       Harry  Suiulerian     i    t 
be  best  man.     (brooms  and  groomsman  are  ^to     eet  M,  ' 
bridesmaids   at  St.  Philip's,  at  eleven  a  m    shim      T 
t.al  knot  tied,  they  are  ti  rettirn  to  Z  ^kt^.'n    "  ansi^,  irh'j;- 
breakfast,  toasts,  speeches,  good  wishes,   etc.      A   vSv  I  tr.'e 
company  are  bu k  en.     Then  the  i)rif]il  fo,,-  .1  ,^    ,  ^^ 

all..-ed  iliss  for  the  rest  of  ti'"  nattllTivis  ."^  '""''  ''''  "'^■ 

llie  snow-storm  still  threatens,  but  has    not  be-un  to  fnU 
when  at  ten  o'clock  Bertie   returns  to  Iiis  hotel      A 11   T  ^^ -^    ' 
It  darkens  and  lowers,  and  glooms,  and  the  wind  bio  vsV    ^^  ^^ 
stormy  quarter,  but  still  the  inipen  ling  stornhdcls  T  U 

be  a  heavy  fall  when  it  comes,  and  tll^  .Si  i       uX  ufchH 
best   nni)ti.al   robe   to  do  honor  to  Sydney's  brih       ^ 
for  his  own   inotection  Bertie   has   taken      (u.     P""  ^^f'^ 
he  wrote  a  brief  note  to  Dolly,  ii  orl  .^.e^  vvf  2  i;".  n^'^^ 

t'ark  he  fondly  hoped.      Jf  he  could  have  seen  the  bitter  1   I 
beving  snnle  with  which  Miss   I)e  Courcv  periled   lY   I  i  T 

do,u:e  m  his  own  diplomacy  nnght  hav'ij;^"^  j  '  '"  '^"'- 
On  Wednesday  m<,rnmg  the  long  threatening  sto  m  bc^an 

i;;ttercoid  had  ch;np';^;j;^-^:-;:i  ,^:::';;:!  Jf  -  ;|- 

;-:ld  was    wrapped    m  a  soft,   soundless,    ghost^    or^el  of 

ioc;;?i;4;Mf;:':^irSw"  ?!;rf  r^^  tz "°'"  ^^  ^^°'"  ^-^ 

line."  "owsoriyiam.     J  did  so  want  to-morrow 


erfectly 


174 


"  THE  FEAST  IS  SET." 


fulent  the  sun  will  sliine.  It  will  snow  itself  out  before  cvenino 
al  tivs  rate.  They  cm't  have  such  a  stock  on  hand  up  there '' 
says  liertie,  consolinj^My. 

JJertie  is  ri-ht.  All'day  lont<  it  falls,  soundlessly  and  thirkly 
tlien  as  evennig  ai.pioaches  it  lightens  and  ceases.  The  an 
turns  crisp  and  cold,  the  stars  come  out,  the  wind  veers  round 
into  a  prointious  quarter,  and  the  sun  will  shine  upon  Sydnev'« 
wedduiiT.  '  }       3  - 

The  Misses  Sunderland  are  here,  ]5ertie,  Cyrilla,  Sydney— 
this  last  evennig.  They  have  music,  and  waltzes  in  a  small 
May  over  the  carpet.  Down  in  the  dining-room  the  marriaue 
east  IS  set  out,  silver  and  glass  making  a  brave  show  under  the 
Jamps.  C(.Ui  white  cakes  glisten,  cut  llowers  in  frosty  eperynes 
are  everyu-here  !  Up  in  one  of  the  spare  rooms  the  bHdal 
(  ress  and  vail,  wreath,  gloves,  and  slippers,  lie  pale  and  wraith- 
iike  111  tlie  starry  dusk. 

At  ten  o'clock   Mr.  Vaughan  arises,  makes  his  adieus  dons 
his  overcoat,  cap  an<l  gdoves,  and  departs.     Sydney  escor  s  him 
o  the  dm.r.      How  white  and  still   all  tlie  snowy  world  below 
how  gold.n  and  blue  all  the  .shining  world  above  !     Mow  tral' 
quil,  how  beaulilul  heaven  and  earth  ' 

\r^l^  ^'"'  ''  '''"  ^'  ''"''"  ''^'  '">'''  ^"'^  ^  ^'"^^  «^^«^^- 
He  bends  above  her  a  smile,  almost  fond  on  his  face 

n.ore  ;:;;i!i;;s:'^" '" ''''- "  ^"^'^  ^^-'"^^--  ^'--  -^  ^^^  no 

'i'hen  he  is  gone.     She  watches  him  in  the  starlight  alonjr  the 

snowy  ,, ah.     Once  he  turns  and  waves  his  hand  ,o  1  e  ^  Im 

mile  st.ll  Imgcnng  on  his  lips.     So  in  her  dreams,  fo   ma '    u^i 

after  year,  Hertie  V  aughan  comes  back  to  her  ^ 

Ivirk      J'  ".'^^!''''-"''^'-^'<''  '''\^.  '^Vdney,  silent  and  thoughtful,  goes 

cu.miri,  ,ui„  It  IS  ji.st  here  from  bdiimi  il,o  rock  ll,  u   ,  ,l,,t 
fiBUK- .till.  „,.  ,„  1,1,  ,,a,l,,  and  a  .t«n  voice  eric-.:  "'' 


I 


*•  THE   GUESTS  ARE  MET.'" 


I7S 


flutter- 


no 


goes 


I 


K 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  THE    GUESTS   ARE    MET." 


YRILLA  IS  finishing  '<  Come  Haste  to  the  Wedding  " 
im    r"/-^"    V^''Se'5   of   wild   variations,   driving    the    old- 
^   fashioned    tune   distracted ;    and  she  rises  from   the 
piano   as   Sydney   enters.     At  sight   of    the   bride's 
thoiiglitful  Httle  look,  she  laughs. 

-My  solemn  Sydney  !  what  is  it  he  has  been  saying  to  you 
so  heart-breaking  that  you  should  wear  that  forlorn  look  ?  " 

"  Do  1  look  forlorn  ?  "  returns  Miss  Owenson.  "  I  don't 
feel  so  I  can  tell  you.  Papa,  do  you  know  we  are  goin«  to 
have  a  fine  day  to-morrow,  after  all,  and  I  am  so  glad  '^ 

"  And  I  am  ,;lad  of  anything  that  makes  my  little  jrirl  dad  " 
says  papa  with  lovmg  eyes.  "  Now,  young  ladies  all,  which  d\> 
you  propose,  to  make  a  night  of  it  here,  and  go  to  church  to. 
inonow  as  ye  low  as  lemons,  or  try  the  early-to-bed  and  early, 
to-rise  prmciple,  JJertie  was  advocating  the  other  day  ?  " 

"  lo  bed  !  to  bed  !  "  exclaims  Miss  Hendrick.  "  I  for  one 
don  t  expect  to  sleep  a  wink;  it  is  the  first  time  I  ever  was 
brulesmaul  in  my  life.     Shall  you,  Syd  ?  " 

''I  hoi,e  so,  at  least,"  laughs  Sydney.     -/  don't  want  to 
ook  as  yellow  as  a  lemon,  to  morrow.     Mamie,  dear,  it  is  yo  a 
turn  to  look  solemn— what  is  it  about  ?  "  ^ 

J' or  the  elder  Miss  Sunderland  is  staring  in  rather  a  drearv 
way  at  the  fire,  and  saying  nothin.r  '^  ^'"-^'^^ 

nn'phaml';'  '"  "'''  "'''  '"''^'^"""  '^^'  ^"''  >'"""Ser  sister,  tri- 
"  Miss   Hendrick's  last  remark  has  upset  her.     This  is  the 
ti^-d  time  she  has  been  a  bridesmaid  ;  and  three  times  a  brides 
I'Kud  never  a  brulc,  you  know.     She   is  thinking  hmv  L  ce  e-' 

iici  uic  nckle  aniections  of  Hen " 

"Susie!"  cries  Miss  Mamie  in  an  awful  voice   anrl  S.xi,. 
t^ie  irrepressible,  shcnUs  with   laughter,  and  Jtop"'  M  '    H   n! 

Courcy  '     "  '""'''  *'  ''''''  ^'"^  ^^^^-^  4cr  Dolly  I^^ 
V  (Jood-night,  Syd-dear  old  Syd-^/,r  Svd,  no  more  i  "  ev 
claims  bu.ie  Sunderland,  flinging  L-r  arms  aro'unS  the  neck  of' 


176 


"  THE   GUESTS  ARE  MET" 


f  f 


i  ' 


|;h'  l.ri,le-i„  ,1,at  «,r,  of  1,,,,-  known  ,„  l^-ars  a„,l  ,ch,x,|.,irl^ 

.<  /     '  V       ,    ^'^  '^  '^•''^  vcheinc-nt  embrace, 
(.ood-n.ght,  Sydney,  love,"  says  :.Kunma,  coinin.^  last  of  ill 

was  marned-you  re.nember,  Reginald  ?  "  ^  ''"  ^ 

How  should  I  renieniber?"  (Vowls  Re-imlrl      «  r  „ 

ladies,"  4.,,  ,:,„  old  sailor     i^^  h?  "^^  "'«'"•   >"""« 

^,.n  „4san.  ...a,.:;'i;:^^:.5-:- ^^:„- s 

„a,;'^T"""   '■■""'"''■  '^<'"'=>'"    '-  -k.-"a.ally  and   trniy 
She  lifts  her  smiling  face  and  fair,  serene  eves 
Really  and  ,n,lv,  |,a„a-,,„i„.,' ,ni,e  ijap^y  " 

uod  bless  my  little  dan<'hter" 
He  holds  her  to  hi,,,  a  moment*,  and  lets  her  ^o      An  1  Q    , 

light  and  goes  to  1  i  „i ,  |' "    ^  T'"'     *>'"••  """»  1»"  I'er 

voice  ha.l  s,K>ken     .^O  f^^^^^  soundless 

In  the  .nidsl  of  life  we  are  incteath  "'""'''  ™^^  '""  ^"^  ^^^^>'- 

ni.^^hu;:i;-d^;';!u^^a4'i:;rti;e^^^^rv^°^ 

Cairs-on  ti>e  lips  fal  ..^-^rsfi  '"  f  ''l'  ^^""^  "^  S^' 
held  the  .neanin  Mo  he  tl  'v  1,  •^"^'^^" '  '?^'t  ^'^^7  l^'e  never 
I-pcs  and  Plans,^^itsi,ihs  an  1  r  !'!"''•  r^'^'  1'^^*  ''''^  =^"  '^ 
best.  SuddenU-:  when  c  ry  t'  ^  1''  ?  '^"^^^^''^  ''^'^  ^ 
t.^c  nail  thread  .na,s,  and  '.C^  t,  ^  Z^^Z^  be^S 


i 


"hool-girfs, 
ill  be  Mrs. 

yrilla  ant/ 

last  of  all. 

lit  not   to 

before  / 

I  am  sure 

-  were  as 

-inorrmv, 
t,  young 
"I  wish 
'ur  britlal 

•  father's 
down  in 

nd   truly 


nd  Syd- 
er  eyes, 
low  her 

k'cather. 
illinnt- 
us  love- 
ul  then 
undicss 
uy  day. 

spoken 
:  of  St. 
-•  never 
all  its 
tale  at 
fullest, 
begins. 


"T//E   GUESTS  ARE  MET.'''  ijj 

"  What  is  tliis  passing  scene  ? 

A  i)ecvi.sli  April  day  ! 
A  little  sun  a  little  rain, 
And  then  night  s\vee|)s  across  the  plain, 

And  all  things  pass  away." 

^.iml!7".h  "'  "''  ^'"''^'  "  •"■^^  ^'T^'^y  ^'""^''  ^he  duties  cheerful], 
■'  f  ilcd,  the  crosses  patiently  borne-everythin«  else  life  hac 
I.ck  lost-these  alone  to  plead  for  us  in  thai  awful  j^Jv^  '^"' 
Nie  draws  the  curiam  and  turns  awnv,  her  thoughts  sweet 
and  sole.nn,  but  not  sad.  Half  an  hotu-  later,  her  S  haiLl 
iHK  loose  over  her  pillow,  a  wondrously  fair  si-'l  t  i  ie  rose 
«h.ne  of  the  hre  she  is  sleeping  like  a  tir.<]  child 

go  ),  ^^h^n  she  .uvakes,  and  some  one  is  standing  by  her  bed 
side  simlmg  down  upon  her.     It  is  Cyrilli  ^ 

"La/iest  of  brides,"  is  Miss  Hendrick's  greetinir  "fret  „„ 
J.ook  at  that  clock  and  blush  for  yourself"    ^    '■""^'      ^^t  up. 

Sydney  looks— it  is  nearly  eight 

l.our^s.l.Ti.t.';  "'"•  "'"'  '  '""^''  '■"'"■■'  ""'«  ''  >  -'^y  good 

i.s  i'"r;;,:wi„!:.;t'r"f;,ri;' "',  ■• "-"-  ^-^^  "i-on ...  ,!«=  ,i„-s 

»lway!:i:..;*'  J'l;' ■,', ■''':,, rr;    ""|>--",SOOcI  r,ie„<ls  we   have 

fact'  M^'lSl^^^i^r^M^i"' 'f"?"'"  "»"""*  ""«"  of- 
son,"  ami  Cy'il"  I  ,'g!,,  '  """"'I'* ''"  ''-"^  ''^''  »""•'  f'^^" 

•'■'  NWr'nli',',,!''^';''"-'^'  ^"^'  '',"'?'«'•     "  "'"'«  ^'^•■■«»>  ?  " 
Miss   Owenson   imv  li  ,  ^  this— however  friendly 

"'■    as  ,f  I  caul<U.v>Td.ang..  ,..,..„  ■" 
tw.M     -Jr™';  dc'i'^f'i;':;:''"  <^;'^'>  •/■""■-^  ■•"'<'  -ai'len,  are 

^)vs  and  fiI'™,r^l^EI™  ;;:-:;;'■  i^^^'j^  ^-«^™'' 

"  If  l^vvcre  .hrec  years-three  cemuries  hi,  wife,"  cried  Mi.s 


178 


"  THE   GUESTS  ARE  MET.'' 


Owonson   with  Iieightcned  color,  "  F  would  still  be  your  friend 

as  strongly  and  as  llnnly  as  I  am  to-day."  ' 

"Ucll,"  M,s.slk.ndrickrosi;onds,    heaving  a  profound   sigh, 

1  hope  so,  1  m  sure      I  told  you  at  school  1  had  a  firm   con- 

d  Vr;       ''•"'''  '^^^  '"•'''"'  ''•■""g  ^'''»''"«  "PO»   that  friend- 

cast  out,  I  shall  iemuid  you  of  this  promise.  Now  get  up,  do 
and  dress  yourself,  and  come  and  have  some  coffee  and  a  roll  to 
neve  you  for  the  tr3,ngor<leal.  I  should  not  be  surprised  if 
M.  Vaughan  were  bracmg  Ins  tren.hling  nerves  with  a /.///, 
7^//.  of  ^'',^'  st;«>"K;-'«t  hre-water  in  Wychclitfe  at  this  mom/nt." 

Sydney  has  her  bath,  knots  up  her  hair,  throws  on  a  dressing, 
gown,  thrusts  her  feet  mto  slippers,  and  runs  down-stairs.     It  is 

at  th  "altar  """'  '"  '""  '"^"^  l'""'^^"'>'  '^'^  ^'^^  ^'^  ^^andLg 
From  this  n.oment  all  is  fuss  and  haste,  bustle  and  confusion, 
A  hasty  cup  of  strong  coffee  is  swallowed  all  around  ;  eating  is 
bu  a  pretext  with  these  excited  maidens,  then  they  scurry^'off 
to   heir  rooms.     In  his,  Captain  Owenson  is  making  the  most 

pioaably  not  get  througii  until  eleven.     For  the   fu'st  time    in 

aua  ing  her,   and   places    herself    under    his    hands.     It  is  a 

e,  lor  the  sacrifice,  approaches  and  leads  her  off.     One  bvone 

ey  are  on   dress,  slippers,  vail,  wreath,  necklace,  gloves^  As 

v..  a  dream  she  sits  or  sui.uls,  wondering  "  if  I  be  I''     She  can 

fancy  tl)e  ,,ains  Hertie  is  taking  over  hi^  weddiit  toilet   so  fas 

.d.ous  and  difficult  as  he  is  at  all  times,  and  she^n  S  to  he 

eleven.         '       "   ^'''"'''   "'   '^''   clock-twenty   nunutes  of 

-  1  don'f  iH^v"'''^^'.;'^'''''!'  '7'!^''  ^•'■^  ^^^^'^  ^  l'^'^'^^  «""Per. 
1  cion  t  believe  you  have  looked  yet  " 

enson  ?    fi        ^  V'l'>f  "-hI  exc  amation.     Can  this  be  Sydnev  Ow- 
h^r^Ii/^^^f^f  vision.n  silvery  white,   with  all  that  gold 

n     sufimh,     H^'f  n'  '"  ^'"^^'•^^'"'^«  ^i''-'>^l<^'-  of  shimmer- 
I  i„  suk,  and  pcail.-,,  and  lace,  aiu  oraive  blossoms  ?     Th^n  .i, . 

-loor^opons  and  tl,e  th,..  I.ia.,»,„aid,  ,i,nX         '     '""'  "" 
T!,!:.'^?l!;d"fl'!:?:!:^?'':'^!^  -!•-'-"  ^"■"  -"  three  a,  once. 


ley  Stand  and  survey  die  bride  fioni  head 


<t 


f«  j 


Oh,  t/.J/i'/  you 


to  foot. 


lUuJ 


scrua;piious  !  "  cries  Susie  Sunderland, 


''Tim   GUESTS  ARE  MET." 


our  friend^ 

bund  sigh^ 
firm  con- 
hat  friend- 
ndless  and 
;ot  uj),  do, 
ikI  a  roll  to 
nprised  if 
h  a  petite 
nonient." 
1  dressing- 
lirs.  It  is 
e  standing 

confusion, 
;  eating  is 
scurry  off 
the  most 
t  and  will 
t  time   in 
lir-dresser 
It  is  a 
s  to  robe 
ne  by  one 
loves.  As 
She  can 
?t,  so  fas- 
is  to  her- 
nutes  of 

d  simper. 

irts  ;  she 
Iney  Ovv- 
iuit  gold 
iiiinuuer- 
rhen  the 


at  once, 
derland, 


179 


dancing  a  little  ecstatic  jig  around  the  bride  ;  "  shoaldn't  1  love 
to  be  a  bride  and  look  like  that  ?  " 

They  are  all  three  in  palest  |)ink  !  rose  is  Cyrilla's  color,  and 
fortunatel);  suits  the  Sunderland  sisters.  In  palest  pii.k,  with 
ti::\^:t^^  brulegroom-sgia.  on  their  necks^and  blush 

"  You  really  look  lovely,  Syd,"  says  Minnie  Sunderland,  with 
a  small,  envious  sigh.  '■  I  always  knew  being  married  was  be- 
commg  to  almost  everybody,  but  it  becomes  you  better  than 
any  one  I  ever  saw.  Your  dress  is  ('X(iuisite  " 

"  And  don't  she  wish  ]5en  Ward  would  ask  her  to  put  on  such 
!"•  aside/'      '"""'  '^  "^'"'''^  with  him  !"  says  Susie,  in  a  stage 

^nr^'.'^r'  °''7f  ^^''''"  '•  *'^''  *''"^'  '^  '^  •"''^'"'"^'  b'-'-^ve  in  pearl 
satin   a  diamond  breast-pin  and  point  lace  cai). 

be  kissed!  '"'""'"''  ^  "  ^'''^  ^"'''  ^'''''  ''°^^^'"-  "I'  ^''^'  ^^^^'  t« 
"  Yes,  you  look  very  well."  savs  mamma,  critically.  «'  White 
SI  k,s  a  trying  thing  to  mo*t  complexions,  but  then  niir  people 
uith  a  color  can  wear  almost  anything.  I  could  myself  when 
1  vyas  a  girl.  Kverybody  said  I  looked  remarkably  well  the 
light  I  was  married.     I  prefer  a  gaslight  marriage  niyself-it's 

cnurch.     Its  more  hnglish,  I  supi)ose  " 

m-md"r.'n'^i'  '''*'  ^j^or-this  time  papa,  looking  stately  and 
gi.inci,  an     officer  and  a  gentleman  "  every  inch. 

his  hand,      the  carnage  is  at  the  door,  and  it  is  only  five  min- 
utes to  eleven.     We  shall  be  precisely  ten  minutes  lal^•' 

made    '  t^^^       I  '"■''^''  '  "  ""'^  ''^^''  ''^"^  ^  ""^^^"^^^1  ^ish  is 
nadc.     I)a//hng  sunshine  streams  over  everything,  but  it  is  the 

la     week  of  November,  and  the  air  is  iced  accordmgly.     VVraps 
ou     ;  ni'"rV'^'7'"  °"',""^  "'^  ^'-^"'^  down-stairsNviLh  a  oy! 
^^^t^"^-  ';\^^  ^^^"^'  ^'^"^'  1^"^  ''^^^  ^"'-^  t^v'o  carriages 
n        1;   \  ^'''   '■'"  ^^^^-^''i^"".  %<lney  and  CyriUa  Hendrk:k 

in  the  nr  .,  inamma  and  the  Misses  Sunclerlaml  L  the  othc. 

everywhjr-:  ''N'^':  t^  ^  "^^  m'^'  ^^^^'^^'^^'y  ^nes  ;  "  sunshine 
vlriSed  V; -.'^  '  '"7  sparkling  as  If  it  had  been  painted  and 
varnished      It  1.,  a  good  omen— this  heavenly  day." 

}  "isli  It  were  not  (juite  so  trvin.'  tr»  the  c-'j   *hx h  "  sn-1 

Syduey''  "  "•■"'   "'^'   =""'-•   '"  l"--   »l'«--<'  «  your  »x-ddi..ft 


i8o 


THE   GUESTS  ARE  MET.'* 


W. 


Sydney  smiles  and  nestles  her  hand  in  his.     There  is  an  inter 

bH  l"  ;i  '"?r"-"^  "^7  ""''  ''^  '''>''^''''''"^-     -^"'1  now  t' e  li  tie 
bi.  e  s  heart  begins  to  beat  fast.     There  is  the  ch„rch-a  Hck 

of  he  town  street  Arabs  around  the  gateth-e  hot.r  1  as  co    e 

J  hey  stop.     Can   Hertie  and   Ha„y  have  walked?    'h  drs 

a.e  the  only  carnages  waiting.     The  girls  Hing  off  their  loose 

vvraps,  the  door  .s  opened  and  the  captain  is  Lnde  1  o  ,       A 

nd  nl'^' V'  '?"  ''\  ''^'-^  ^'^""^'^  door-inpon  it  the  b  iZ  ste,« 
'  "d  takes  her  father's  arm.     The  Misses  Sunderland  and  Alils 

lendnck  follow;  mamma  sails  along  in  their  wake  ad  Z 
l>r.dal  cortege  sweep  into  the  cinirch.  '  ""'"^  "'° 

ears    w'lVVrf  ^^•'"^'■%^'?)'^1'^^T's  eyes,  a  dull  roaring  in  he, 
cars    her  heart  beats  as  if  ,t  would  suffocate  her      She  is  dimU 

's::T:^t^%  '^  ^^T '"' ''  "-^'"^''  ^^^ 

ft^s      ;  ;n   /,    /       r-   ^ '^^'»-''''*-^  "-'v^-r  afterward  knows  how 
t   s_buta./,///.-//^ofice.waterseemstogo  over  her  all  „il,>i 

S^d^ild^m  "nlf ;ir!V"r"^'  ''''  ^^^"--^'-  ^^  sudlieX 

llicy  arc  standing  a)onu  at  thu  allar  rails,  her  fctlipr  h.-r 

l.ri<ks,na„Is,  herself,  an,l-no   one   else.      lierlie  am     Harrv 

Ha;r;ts''c:r '°  '^  ""^  "^■f-"^-  "■^■'"'  •'"•  -ithe;i;L..'ie'',;o^ 

::n,f„n''.;o'^:rz.j'^-i:!:'  ■'--'  ^"-.  •''-thiesst  a  tiaj,''n;,! 
..^ort^-:^,-t,src?^rSaSs^-srt-^-^^^ 

s;r»;;;;;;i't^!;:;'r;;-a,|ir,;:^r;tra:a''^-''^^'?^-- 


I 


♦'  THE   GUESTS  ARE   MET"  i8j 

miniifes  tick  off.  No  one  scc.ns  to  know  what  to  do.  they  just 
stand  ami  look  blankly  before  then,.  Thc-n  the  rapain^n 
out  h,s  watch,  his  hand  shaking  as  tlun.gh  palsv-stri  km  t  s 
tu'enty  nnnutes  past  eleven.  As  he  puts  it '  back  the^e  s  a 
M.dden  sound  an(  bustle  at  the  door.  All  start,  all  eyes  turn 
all  hearts  beat  ,,tnck.  A  num  enters,  one  n,an  one  only-S 
the  bridegroom.     It  is  Harry  Sunderland.  ^ 

sf.mr  h  "''!!''''  '"'r'fr''  '"'•''  ''■^'''^'-''^'  ''"■  '''■'■'^^"^  "l>to  where  tln^y 

e  lo    li^  i?h        h  "T-'r  ^""S'-^'^^^^io"'  and  addresses  hinf. 
^tlt  to  the  father  of  the  bride. 

sort'o/voicel^''"^''''"  come?"  he  asks,  in  a  hoarse,  breathless 
"He  is  not  here,"  the  parson  answers. 
The  power  of  speech  it  seems  has  left  Captain  Owenson. 
J  lien  m   Heaven's  name,  where  can  he  be?"   the  v-.i-nr, 

n  ght.      No  one  knows  anything  of  him.       He  left  vesterdiv 
aflernoon  and  has  never  been  seen  since  "  y^^^eulay 

In  the  same  hoarse,  breathless  voice,  he  says  all  this,  staring 
blankly  in  the  clergyman's  face.  ^ 

^^  1   waited   and   waited,  hoi)ing   he  would   come,"  he  goes 

no'one--"'"''''"^""'  '"  ''''"■'''  "^  ''""•     ^°  °'^^  ^^^  '^^"^  J^'"'» 
"  I'apa  !  "Sydney  shrieks.     She  si)rings  forward,  not  a  second 

oo  soon,  and  reels  as  her  father  .alls  heacUong  uUo  her  extended 
arn is.     Harry  Sunderland  catches  him  before? both  fall 
fh/.n  hin  'T''  "^  'J''-^"«\c«"f"sion  begins,  the  cries  of  women, 
the  lushing  of  many  feet,  the  sounds  of  wild  weeping,  the  excited 
clanior^of  many  tongues.      In    the   n.idst  of  it  all  the  rector 

"Carry  him  into  the  vestry,"  he  says,  and  young  Sunderland 

l>ey.      Like  a  dead  man  the  old  sailor  lies  in  his  arms.     Is  he 

11      ^^'f.,'""'"  has  been  long  ago  pronounced-a  sudden 

cnough'nL         "  "'  '"^  '""""^'     ^""'>'  '''  '-^  '^'-^^1  ^hock 

''  I'ly  for  a  doctor ! "  says  iMr.  Sylvester. 

Sunderland  places  his  burden  upon  a  bench  and  goes       Svd 
ney  sinking  on  her  knees  by  his  side,  receives  her  father's  Ik    i 
m  her  arms.     She  does  not  speak,  .ho  pvU-..  .^  -,„.'- 
•s  the  color  of  death,  and  her  eyes  are  ^viufiind  iib.^  'S  u  " 
ror,  but  she  is  perfectly  still.     Her  mother  m  the  grasp  of  Cilia 
Hendnck  .sin  violent  hysterics  ;  the  Sunderland ^uls 'stand  ne 


18: 


«•  7V/£  GUESTS  ARE  :  ET:' 


\ 


ifj 


sol)l)ing  uncontrollably.   Sydney  alone  looks  down  in  her  father's 
corpsL-likc  flice  and  is  still. 

It  may  he  a  nioniciit,  it  may  he  nn  hour,  she  does  n^  '  know 
when  the  doctor  conje  .  She  does  not  quit  her  post  as  he 
makes  his  examination  ;  it  seems  to  her  she  hardly  lives  or  feels 
as  he  searclies  pulse  ami  heart,  and  pronounces  it  not  death,  but 
a  death  like  faint.  Then  remedies  of  all  kintls  are  tried.  Syd- 
ney is  told  to  arise,  and  mechanically  olieys.  She  stands  beside 
her  falhc  heedless  of  everyt',in,u  else  that  goes  on,  forgetful  ol 
eveiythin^  else  that  has  hapi)ene(l,  and  watches  the  slow  return 
to  life.  Slow,  hut  he  does  return  ;  there  is  a  struggle,  a  (juiver 
of  all  the  limbs,  a  gasping  breath  or  (wo,  and  he  opens  his  eyes. 
He  is  bewildered  at  first — he  looks  wildly  around. 
"Sydney!" 

"Fa|)a,  darling,  here!"     She  falls  on  her  knees  beside  him 
agim,  again  takes  his  head  in  her  arms,  and  kisses  him  softly. 
"Something  has  happened?  '  hi  asks  in  the  same  vacant  way. 
"What  was  it?     Oh,  I  know!"     A  spasm  of  agony  distorts 
his  face.     "  Hertie."  ' 

"  Marry  is  going  to  try  and  find  him.     Don't   think  of  Hertie 
now,  papa.     Can  you  sit  up  ?  We  are  going  to  take  you  home." 
"Yes,  home— home!"  he  makes  ansu.i,  brokenly.     "There 
will  be   no  man  ,  ing  or  giving   in    mani  ,-e    todav.     Oh,   mv 
Utile  daughter."  ^ 

They  raise  him  up,  I  Tarry  Sunderland  on  one  side,  the  doctor 
on  the  other,  and  bear  him  between  them  to  the  carriage.  He 
came  here  this  morning  a  fine,  upright,  grand  old  gentleman,  he 
goes,  marked  for  death,  unable  to  stand  aloiu  The  doctor 
follows  him  m,  and  sits  beside  him  ;  then  Sydney,  Henry  Sun- 
derland helps  to  his,  Mrs.  Owenson  still  sobbing  wildly,  and 
finally  iMiss  llendrick. 
_  "  Vou  ha(I  better  get  into  my  sleigh,  girls,"  he  has  said  to  his 
sisters  ;  "it  IS  at  the  gate.  They  want  no  strangers  at  Owen- 
•  son  Place  today.     You  can  drive  yourself  and  Sue,  Mamie." 

1  liey  assi'nt  and  go.     'I'lie  young  fellow  returns  to  the  first 
carnage  and  looks  witli  compassionate  eyes  at  Sydney 

"  I  am  going  in  search  of  Hertie,"  he  says.     "I  will  find  him 
It  lie  is  alive." 

She  bends  her  head  and  the  carriage  starts.  They  go  slowly 
—It  takes  all  the  doctor's  strength  to  uphold  the  sficken  man. 
I  lie  other  carnage  is  at  th.e  house  before  them,  and  Mr.s.  Owen- 
son  ami  Cm  ilia  stand  at  the  door. 

"  Oh,  Reginald,"  Mrs.  Owenson  cries,  with  a  wild  Hood  of  tears. 


f 


or  father's 

IK  ♦  know 
)st  as  he 
!s  or  feels 
Icath,  but 
id.  Syd- 
ids  beside 
rgi'tfiil  oi 
)W  return 
a  (luivor 
his  eyes. 


side  him 
I  softly. 
:ant  way. 
r  distorts 

)f  Bertie 

I  home." 

"There 

Oh,    my 

e  doctor 
;e.  He 
man,  lie 
doctor 
iry  Siin- 
lly,  and 

d  to  his 
Owen- 
inie." 
the  first 

nd  him 

slowly 

n  man, 

Owcri- 

:^f  tears. 


*' DEATH  rs  KING-AND   VI VAT  HEX.'' 

I  f e  ncitl,.  .c-cT,)s  to  s,v  nor  hear  her.  Perkins  and  the  doc. 
tor  carry  hm.  ,.,.  sta.rs  to  his  bedroom,  take  off  all  tlu  se  1,  "^ 
wee  .hn^^-^^rar.neMts,  vvh.ch  will  serve  for  his  shroud,  and  lay  in 
on  the  l.cd  from  wh,.  h  he  will  never  rise  ^ 

hn',d'>:^if;:":l;;V';:  """•'t''  '1t^ "™°™« """.'»"•-• 

'     "-'m',  I'l  luoc.      lucre    ,i  »■   no    tears    in  h.-i 

eyes;  she  has  sie(    i.  siie  keens  th-if  m-.i    ^«,i  i   'Y       '         ' 

tI!      -ri...  ni.wi,  ..,  ;i  ,'        ^  •'^''-  *^o''  calm  throudi 

all.  1  be  clo(  k  strik  one  as  she  throws  on  hei  dressiuL^  Lrr.vvn 
ami  hurr>es  to  her  fathers  bedside.  An,  1  where  in  the  wodd  of 
the  living  or  the  world  of  the  dead  is  IJcrtie  Va^han  ? 


CHAPTER  XX. 

"T^KATH    IS   KING—AND   VIVAT  REX." 

railing  for  her  as  she  goes  in.     She  comes 
.ul  twines  her  arms  around  him  as  he  lies 
\niy,  iniinite  love  look  at  her  out  of  those 

"My  httle^one  '•  he  says,  «'my  little  one,  it  is  hard  on  m/ » 

cancel",,;;.' .;!':,;:'':,  ',.^i:""  \°z  r:  'iT'r  ^  '"•'■  "=  "= 

1  -use,  n.annna,  not  so  loud.     You  will  wake  papa,"  she 


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t84 


''DEATH  IS  KING— AND    VI VAT  HEX.'' 


m 


ill 


says,  ploadlnjrly,  and  mamma  vvitli  another  burst  of  stifled  hvs 
terics  goes  out  and  confides  to  Miss  tlendrick  how  dry-eved  and 
unfeehng  Sydney  sits.  ^ 

Hours  pass.  The  yellow  afternoon  sun  is  slantini?  farthoi 
and  tarther  westward  ;  m  the  sick-room  pale  twilidit  ^is  fallin-. 
already,  when  there  is  a  loud  ring  at  the  door-bell.  Sydney's 
heart  jumps  wildly.  Her  father's  dulled  ears  hear  it,  her  father's 
Gulled  eyes  0|)en. 

"Whois  this?"  he  asks. 

"  1  don't  know.     Are  you  better  papa,  dear  ?  " 

"  Have  you  been  here  ever  since  ?  "  he  incpiires 

"  Yes,  papa  ;  you  know  I  would  rather  be  beside  you  than 
anywhere  else  in  the  world."  ^ 

"  My  Sydney  !  "  He  presses  her  hand  gently,  and  tears  force 
their  way  into  his  eyes  ;   "  there  is— no— news  ?" 

"None,  papa — 3et." 

*'  They  are  searching  ? '' 

..olJ'-''  ^''''''''     !'^^''T''   '""y^  ^^''y  ^"^  the   constable   are 
searching  everywhere." 

"  How  long  have  I  slept?" 

"  Nearly  three  hours,  papa." 

•'  Sydney  !  "  she  says,  in  an  excited  wliisper,  "  tliere  is  a  .nan 

.    "  Semi  Imn  in  ! "  exclaims  lier  liusband's  voice,  and  Aime  Char 
jmnps   and  shrieks  ,  "  send  hi,,  in.  Char.     Do 'yon  l^ar  i>     aI 

l,„n  ■■•!;  0"="'^°';  ™"!*>-'J-  ,  Sydney  feels  (he  hand  her  falher 

liK:ex3ta:h'!.f  hi?:;':.,'^'--"^  "^  ""'^" '--« "■■-'".  -- 
Yo';A','^n.';ro.':^.h:t;:  ■ ;;  f -^^'r.'.^  ■  -  """■'  -'-  ^«-'f- 

He  knows  well  enough,  but  he  never  thinks  of  himself  in  this 
uomcnt.        he  man  is  ushered  in  by  the  mistress  o     he  I  "use 
and  s  ands  hat  in  hand,  bowing  awkwardly  and  looking  embar! 
a  ur7;\ ''f '"^'  HUelhgent  working  man.  " 

V\  ell,    the  captain  gasps,  "  (jmck  !  what  is  your  news  ?  " 

to^;:in:;?  '''"""  ^^™^  ^^^  ^-''  ->^  ^-^^i'  out  som^hing 


tined  hys 
'-eyed  and 

ig  farthoi 
is  falling 
Sydney's 

er  father's 


yon  than 
i^ars  force 

able   arc 

her  must 

Dwenson 

is  a  man 
father — ■ 

mtChar 
ar?    At 

r  father 
ith,  sees 

yourself. 

f  in  this 

;  house, 

embar- 

s?" 
netliing 


J 


f" 


"DEATH  IS  Kmc-AND   VIVAT  REX."  185 

kno?;™' ■  '°"  "'"■'"' '°  '~'=  ="  ""■^'  '"i-.  -nd  tell  mc  if  you 

She  takes  it  and  utters  ■^  rrr      r<-  ;       i     , 
fragment  of  broken  chain  '^'       '  ''  ^  '°'''^^^  ^"^^^'^^^^  *«  ^ 

does,  the  instant  his  eyes  fall  u,^n\  ^'  '''''^^'"'^'-"^  '''  ''  ^^^ 
"I'tl^n'ht  so"'cfi,r"°  f  n'""'"'^  ^'^^"?"  -«ks  the  man. 
tiel..fu^e:;:^^^S:SS^'^^^^- 

rovv  ribbon.''  "'^'^'^'  "°  ^•""^^^'•-  ^l^^n  a  strip  of  nar- 

At  IS,     bydney  exclaims  ;  "1  am  sure  of  i>  t     Tho        7 
peculiar  y  st  tched  wifh  yvUhl .  at    \>       ,       ,  ^  "*^  ^"^^  ^^e 

last  nigiu  whei   he  le       h     h  '        '  ^r m^'^^^"  '^^^^*  t""^^' "»  l^i«  "^'ck 
nK^a„  p""  '  '^^^  ^'"'^  ''°"^^-     ^^^  Papa  I  what  does  this 

cedar  b.lsMla^^;?'^  !:;\(J;S^S'^e°^'l!^^"'^'"^  ^^'"  ^ 
pieces  as  you  see  ft  unl  .V.  V,'  ^  •"'''''' ^'^  ^"'"^  ^^  ^^^o 
grouiul  above      It  was  .L  \     •'''^-  ''T'"  '"   ^'^'''  ^""^^  ""  the 

t"-o  and  tran.pt'd  imo  L'  "'''i  ^.'''- "^  ^'^''^  '■•'^^""'  ^om  in 

^'P  and  looSove    r  tl       t-'''/'\''^'''^^^"'^^^-    ^  P'''^k-'d  then, 

^'^n,in\and  a  Sli^^^^^^^^^  I  "s  ere  gold  thing,  but  the  sun  was  a 

,  anu  1  cached  It.     It  was  hangmg  from  a  cedar 


T 


1 86  *' DEATH  IS  KING -AND   VIVAT  REXy 

bush,  as  if  vvhoeveruorc  it  had  fell  down  and  it  caught  there 
and  snapped  otl.  The  bush  was  a stion-  one  but  it  wf s  ronflH 
nearly  up,  like's  if  it  had  been  caught  holt  of  ^Idl;',:.]  ^^aHy 
torn  from  the  roots.     I  was  sbiirt  s(iuare,  as  I  say   but       had 

;;;:  ■""  f^  ^r%  '  l-!,  ^'-'  ^'^••'}'^-  >"  -y  pocket  Ina  tk  n'  .1 
on  to  hensonbrulge  1  he  first  tlung  1  hear  when  I  come  back 
.v;ts  tins  ere  story  about  the  missing  young  gentleman  as  was  to 

t;rr^f.i,is;t :;"'- "  "°'^^^^'  ^-^ '  --  -^^^^  ^-- 

ney  stands  rigi<l,  her  face  like  whitl  stone  n.  the  grav  clusk    ' 
Ihere  were   the  signs   of  a   struggle?"    her  tather  asks 
Were  there  any  traces  of  bloodshed  on  the  snow  ?  " 
'None  at  all,   scjuare— not  a  speck,  jest  the  shufflin'  rinrl 
rtrugglm'  and  wrastlin'  like,  over  th'e  gro/nul,  and  thf^L  of 
he  chlf  b.oke  and  crumbled  ofif  as  it  nnght  be  if  a  man  fell 
over.     And  straight  down  from  there  J  fou.tl  the  gold  thh  l  on 
the  bush,     r.n  ahaul  U)cre  ain't  no  two  ways  about  it   bu^tha^ 
some  poor  fellow  fell  over  there  last  niuht  " 

'*  And  the  heiglit  is " 

"  Kighty-foot,  square,  if  an  inch,  and  as  dangerous  a  ulace  as 
you  11  uKl  m  the  State.  The  sides  as  steep,  p^tty  wel  as  the 
wall  of  a  house,  and  the  rocks  below  stick  up  like  spik's^t  e 
devil  s  own  to  fall  on,  askin'  the  ladies'  pardon  " 

throat.^''''  ''"'  ""  "'^'"~"  '^''  '^^''''''  ^'"1'^'  "^  ^'^"l^i"g  in  his 
"  Not  the  fus^t  sign,  square,"  the  man  anr.wered,  understand 
mg  readily,  "of  a  body  on  the  rocks.     The  tide  was  aMith 
..termai-k  about  eleven  last  night,  and  anythii:^  d.:rLn'c!ot 

He  pauses  and  looks  compassionately  at  Mrs.  Owenson  who 
has   broken  out  mto  dreadful   hystericl  crying  once  more      a 
horrul  picture  is  before  her^Bertie,  her  handton^     4mS  Bef 
l.e,  hurled  over  that  dreadful  place,  calling  ale.        ^h     au^nv 
for  ne  p   where  there  were  none  to  hear,  l/ing  ah  .=ee  in^an 
nuingled  on  the  black-spiked  rocks  below,\,n'til  the      ig^old 
cruel  waves  swept   nearer  and   nearer,  washing  overh^w     e 
bruised  foce,  and  carrying  him  off  on  their  black  b leas  s  o      to 
he  awful  sea.     She  shrieks  aloud  in  her  horror,  and  Sydn^^^ 
to  go  over  and  take  her  in  her  arm^  ^yuaty  nas 


«•' 


caught  there 
it  was  rooted 
n,  and  nearly 
y,  but  I  had 
ind  train; ■v;d 

1  come  back 
lan  as  was  to 

2  right  here. 

hivering  into 
te,  and  Syd- 
av  dusk. 

father  asks. 
?" 

^hufflin'  and 
the  edge  of 

a  man  fell 
-lid  thing  on 

it,  but  that 


s  a  place  as 
well,  as  the 
spik  's — the 

>king  in  his 

inderstand- 
■'as  at  high- 
t  fell  down 

snson,  who 
more,     a 

jfMiial  Ber- 
liis  agony 

^'ding  and 


'■^ng,  cold, 
■  his  white 
sts  out  to 
ydaey  has 

lurt  papa. 


t. 


^^ DEATH  IS  K-ING-AND    VIVAT  REX.n  igf 

"Yes,  leave  the  room,"  orders  fh<»  m.ifnir,  „    i 

Co,,,  cy  .,c„rry,„g  l,o,„e  alone  in  the  n.oonlight      Hr/s  no  1,^, 

^.,ows  a,xl^uspects     lS\,,!t„r:  "°*"«  ,°f  what  she 
.c,    that  the,  .h'c,„d  thinfl^n;  tJ^^L^^^Zt!^  ^t  '''■ 

to  hcrsflf  i«  Mr.   r\  t^apaoie  of.     She  smiles  scornfullv 

b..,      1  and  lfroke,?:,r;he'nr"'r  '"  t'"  "'""'•'-■  "^  ""'i' 

th^  sit  lamentn.g^im  he:;:t  is^l^lf.^^  ^'J^.H^^Jf 

n'agistrate, 'o  ti  e   Phc'e      H.         ''"^  ^V"  ^^'>""^^^'  ^'^^  ^'^'^^^^ 
day  ends  and     h^  I  r    ^^'"'-'S  ^s  the  short  November 

•'K!gist;ia  pow^  candoT'r-  '^,'^"  '"'^^^^'^"^^^  Inunan  and 
j_^j^^^  powci  can  do  to  brmg  the  mystery  of  last  night  to 

om'l^uT  He'h.rr^  Sunderland,  looking  fagged  and  worn 
spiHtles^  .  H  J  '  .  b^^'T  r  ';"^J  nothing  at  all,  he  savs, 
i«  very  quiet   kV he        "  f '      ^".^^°\^^  ^^^^ey,  but  Sydne^ 


1 88 


*' DEATH  IS  A'/NG~AND    17 FAT  REXV 


i 


m  I 


Mrs   Owcnson  sits  up  with  her  husband  all  night ;  Sydney  jc 
dispatched  to  bed.     She  goes  and  sleeps-theix-  is  no  beftei 
anodyne,  no  surer  anaesthetic,  tiuan  heavy  trouI;le.     An<l  nJx 
monung  she  takes  her  post  by  the  bedside,  and  keeps  it  all  day 

It  is  a  very  sad  and  weary  day.     Her  father  has  those  drculful 

spasms  more  than  once.     It  see.ns  at  times  as  though  he  cannot 

ve  to  see  nightfall.     l]ut  he  does,  and  that  nightfall  brings  no 

^:^^  u'^sir "" ''-' '''''-'  ''^  ^^^-^"^-"^  ^  ^o^ 

They  have  sent  to  New  York  for  a  clever  detective,  and  place 
tlie  case  m  his  hands.  All  seem  to  take  it  for  granted  thaH 
uuder  has  been  done,  but  the /.v....-/-^/^  evidence  of  n  r der 
(the  hndmg  of  the  body  ,  is  wanting  here.  Had  the  miss  n  ' 
man  any  enemies?  the  detective  ve^ry  naturally  ask  a  y  o  t 
at  a  1  interested  m  his  removal-a  rival  or  anything  of  hat  so^  ? 
And  the  answer  is  unanimouslv,  no  !  •>        i'    '  '''^^  >'Oii  r 

So  far  as  all  who  were  ac(iuaintcd  with  him  seem  to  know,  he 
had  neither  rival  nor  foe,  in  the  world 

No  mention  is  made  of  Dolly  De  Courcy~no  one  ex-XM)t  Cv 
nlla  Hendnck  and  Hen  Waid   think  of  her  in  connection  with 
the  matter,  and  neitJier  of   them  will  speak.     St  1   by  d  nT  of 
"Kiuiry   the  detective  finds  out  on  the  sJcond  day   he  little  eoi 
sode  of  the  actress.     This  missing  young  gentleman    >  id  li^ 
attentions,  and  deserted  her  for  the^^oung^Ia'l;   e  wa   t o  m a    v 
he   actress  was  a  young  person  of  vlolent^em  er,  an  1     oi 
lie  sort  to  stand  by  an<l  be  jilted  quietly.     The  detlct' ve  on  t h i^ 
hint  goes  up  to  New  York  and  ferrets  out  Dolly 

She  is  easily  enough  found.  She  occu|)ies  a  suite  of  thr^^ 
rooms  in  a  tenement  house,  with  her  mo  hen  Do llv  Ts  1  o^-t 
and  snappish  not  to  say  Ik-rce,  and  knows  nothi.7abou  it' 
She  ha.,  read  the  account  in  the  ])ai)ers  •  he  was  a  vilhi,  rl. 
w  om^,  death  was  too  good  ;  hc/tiateci  h^  VJ:;mS;  '^ 

u  H.S  iragLd),  and    he  lieiceness  turns  to  sobs.     Ikit  she  didn't 

a    him  and  laughs  in  his  face.     Would  he  like  to  know  whe  e 
he  was  that  night?     Well,  she  was  at. home;  he  can  Isk  h'r 

nm:'j;\n°rD'  ;"'"^^-  '"'•  '^'•^-  sni;eiiy-s.^i;' 

tiK  name  of  Miss  De  Courcy's  mother— beintr  summone.l    nnl 

S:r;^;:r  i;r  S^-- .^'j'^r- ^""? 

a-ady  to  take  he. affadavy  of  Ul'l;;^' ^'bolf^i IS'sn^e,,; 


: ;  Sydney  is 

is  no  bcttci 

And  next 

'ps  it  all  (lay 

ose  drcridfiil 
'M  he  cannot 
11  brings  no 
iient  of  the 

-,  and  ])lace 
ntcd  that  a 
■  of  murder 
he  missing 
s  ;  any  one 
f  that  sort  ? 

0  know,  he 

ex-^ept  Cy- 
jction  with 
by  dint  of 
e  little  epi- 
11  paid  her 
■s  to  marry, 
r,  and  not 
tive  on  this 

te  of  three 
ly  is  short 
;  about  it. 
villain,  for 
-•fully,  and 
:lion  Dolly 
she  didn't 
scornfully 
low  where 

1  ask  her 
inivelly  is 
oned,  not 
"^_  eventful 
vt,  and  is 
1.  Snivelly 


** DEATH  IS  KING—AND    VI VAT  REX.* 


189 


Ik 


are  triumpUntly  prepared  to  prove  an  allbh  and  the  detecti-e 
returns  to  Wychchffe  more  puzzled  than  he  came  ^^^^^*^''° 

J,c..„--.,,e  detective  re..,,,,  to  New  Yo.k,'l„'<l'fu,r^J1,: 

At  Oiveiison  Place,  i.s  ,i,astcr  lies  <lyi,ie_the  wonri,.,-  ;<  „,„ 
lie  i,,s  ,„,.ere<I  m,  long.  It  l,as  .,ee„.«l  .*o  h  ,,,  au^t  /l  ,  '  il 
™«V  .he  u„t,l  h,s  boy  is  found,  b„t  death  is  he  e  He  h  ' 
.,ever  known  how  dearly  he  loved  the  son  of  his  old  liie,"  ullii; 

.>i"ht''  The 'tl°^,  *'  "f  °^.  necen.ber,  a  cold,  white,  frosty 
„  ,t.  1  he  hgh  b.,rns  low  in  the  s  ck  n,an's  room  he  fi,;^ 
iliekers  and  on  h„.  bed  Captain  Owenson  is  drift^ro,.  to  ^ 
v,der,  darker,  lonelier  sea  than  any  over  which  he  ,asf  v?.r  snH^.  I 
...  her  ol.l  place  Sydney  sits  beside  hi,,,r  iS,  ,  al  id  ,h aS- 
.ke  tl„„  and  wo,n.     She  has  been  the  mostlli  hf  ,1    ,1  e     k  si 

hoi. is  her     ',""?'  '';:"!?  "f  """"■  •""  =""  •"«  apa.  e.  c  t,     ei 

hokls  I  c,  ;  she  hardly  knows  whether  she  is  snUeri,..  or  not     T 1,^ 

e  ,se  that  she  n,„s.  be  here  keeps  her  up,  but      e  VI,  c  ," 

™Xrts7o™'ns:d"rhe,."£;''e;s  ':^:^:.  ''- 

"Yes,  pai)a — here." 

"Always  'here,'  my  darlintr."     His  voice  is  movm  fnJnf      .1 

i|f^Si--XonV''-^l5 
mat  taint  whispermrr  voce    "before  Mr...^.  oii  "^  »ays  m 

say  a  few  words  to  vn,,      Ti         •     ,  .  ^^'  •'°'^'-^'''  ^   ^^^"^^  to 

aboMf     "  .  ^  ?         ^  ''^''■*'  '^"^  '""c'l  l""^'  I^'ft  now.     It's 

about—    a  pause  and  a  gasp—'*  Bertie." 
^t-'s,  pai)a." 

to  Z'tSt  .""n?;''  f "'"  "I^'  ^^''^'''^"'^  tl^^y  ?   It  doesn't  take  Ion. 

cuH  ot"""H,l     r  '"'"J^^'^^^  ^^  c^-'-^'-  ^I'scovered.      And  J_oh  !  I 

fort^^ bo  y''s:tch  fo'r'his'"'"^'  f  ^'''"'>''  ^^^'^^  ^^'^^'  ^^  "»  '  ---' 
uou),  scarcli  lor  his  nuu-derer— search— search ! " 


'90  **DEAT/r  IS  KING-AND    VIVAT  REX» 

to  htvoicl..""""'  ""-='  '""'  ^'^"^  "'■ "-  °W  '•'--  ringccnos 

J  proDiise,  papa." 
Ves,  papa." 

her  Other's  buniin<r  eves   and  fh,   c?  ■   •  "^>\ving  outside, 

her  own  weary,  \^^^^  t:T't :^'^T'^^  ^°'^^'- 
day  of  her  death.  -"i^'Weis.     It  never  left  Jier  to  the 

She  gave  liiin  a  few  drops  of  a  revivin<^  cordial  n  nd  f  h  .« 
her  former  Dlace  and  ^^\uu^<u  \.      ,»^"'"''^'''^"<' then  resumed 

night."  '••      ■'^V    Jittle  one,  good. 

She  kissed  him  and  went.     He  turned  to  his  wife. 


% 


(,{■*.  .(-i*-[«*h«i« 


i  in  tlic  same 
isciy  on  licr 

ling,  in  this 
II  you  think. 
'1  bury  it  be- 
;inaii ! " 
'  ring  comes 

ws  what  she 

lonpj  as  you 
a  iniidcrcr 
'an's  blood 
icthcr  it  l)e 
path,  hunt 
ows  for  the 


your  mind. 

K  the  cold 
that  scene 
w  it  then. 
ig  outside, 
ig  voice — 
lier  to  the 

n  resumed 

ig,  almost 
'Hy  in  her 
n  may  we 
are  justly 

liad  they 

li  for  the 

d-night." 
le,  good- 


•■DE4m  7S  KING-AND   VIVAT  RF.X.-  ,„ 

go.,,1  wife.     Ooo.l-night  Char  "        ^  '  ^''^  ^'^^^  ^'-^^"»  a 

nof  chJi!ri;:r!^'^  \^ti:V:tir^  -?  --  •^  --i  •-  does 

Jiard  sailing-n.aster  o  ,0  fool  ,''  'i  ^'  ''"  '^'^^  '^^^"  '-^f'^-'--  a 
oHife  Then  he  <\ro^^^^tt^':''  "^^ ''y^""^  ->'^'-^^" 
tnnu-d  from  the  light.  ^  slumber   with  his  face 

kisses  l,e,gc^„lv.  '""''■■'  '"-'r  ^'".s  .al,o„t  I,ct  a„;l 

;;ll<nvis|,a,;a?.'S,,l,,cyask.,. 
,„„,„■:>    ^y""^'a"-c.rsvcryg,.avc.ly.     "  He  is  a.  .est  .his 

ea.'a^™nr!L5;:S^rS.;i','-, ;'™^      -P  or  coffee  a,., 
room.  '""  -^'o^vly  ui)  the  stairs  to  her  father's 

.^pr™„.ae.,,,eeu  her  as  she  opens  n,e  cloo.    and  .akes  her 

."  Oh  !  Sydney,  Sydney  !"  she  qnh<=      ci     i 
cricu  until  she  thinks  she  h-i.  nn  ,  ''^  '"''^^  ^'"'^d  all  night, 

;vhic(:';;:\^7 , ;,  m'he  •;  "';f «"-  --  '^  '^e  bed.  „„„ 

'"s^^:^p;d;:li;trf ^?^  "^^- '"""^-  '"""^' 

'h^-  .l.a.1  I,L;;;:   "  °"  '"='  '"'^^  by  <he  b.d,  and  lays  her  face  on 
years,  Sydney  has  ^i;,:"^':;;:;^;^,';:;'^"^'''.  "■■"  "^'  --"'«" 


ipa 


***Tll'AS  ON  A    WINTI'.RK'^  EVENING* 


CIIAPTKR    XXI. 


(t*. 


TWAS    ON   THE    EVKNING    OF   A   WINTKR's    DAY." 

HK  last  ni-lit  of  a  short  Fehniary  day  was  (lyin<T  oat 
over  tlie  city  of  Afontrcal.  It  had  hocn  a  dav  of  hitter 
cold;  the  wind  had  swept  in  wild,  h.n-  blasts  aroinn! 
1  lace  d  Arnu-s  and  Champ  de  IMars,  and  tip  and  down 
Notre  Daine  street,  ali  the  sunless  day  lon^.  Now,  with  the 
fall  of  evening,  the  gale  had  fallen  too,  and  the  intense  cold  wa« 
slowly  but  surely  abating. 

At   the  window  of  a  honsc   in  a  solitary  end  of  the  city   a 
yonng  girl  stood  looking  thouglufully  out  at  this  gloomy  wint'er 
nighlfall.     It  was  a  house  detached  from  all   others,   shut  in 
raliier  extensive  grounds,  a  group  of  noble   horse-chestnuts  in 
front  htting  themselves   in   the   gloaming    like  ebony  goblins 
against  a  sky  of  lead.     It  was  a  house  of  dull,  ugly  red  brick, 
with  small,  old-fashioned  windows,  and  a  general  air  of  neglect 
and  desolation,  and  decay  about  it.     A  high  wooden   wall  in- 
closed the  grounds,  with  a  high  wooden  gate,  generally  closed 
but  open  now,  showing  the  snowy  path  that  led  to  the  inhosnit- 
able  looking  front  door,  and  the  two  lighted  windows,  at  one  of 
which  the  watcher  stood.     Properly  she  was  not  a  watcher  for 
she  was  looking  for  no  one  ;  she  was  only  gazing  aimlessly'out 
at  the  dismal  prospect  of  snow-covered  ground  and  starless  sky 
It  was  Cyrilla   Hendnck,  and   the  house  was  Miss  Dormei^s 
mansion,  m  the  good  French  city  of  Montreal, 

Within,  the  house  was  silent  as  a  tomb-without,  i^^  and 
taint  tile  mufllcd  noises  reached  her.  Montreal  is  7iot  a  deaf 
ening  city  after  nightfall.  The  only  light  in  the  room  is  the 
light  of  a  large  coal  fire,  and  by  its  glow  the  apartment  is  dis- 
covered  to  be  dmgily  comfortable— the  red  hue  o*"  the  well 
vvorn  carpet  curtains,  chairs,  and  sofas  having  something  to 
do  with  the  look  of  warmth  and  comfort.  There  is  a  small 
upright  Knghsh  piano,  a  few  dark  oil  paintings  in  Hv-blown 
gilded  frames  Everything  looked  tlie  worse  for  wear  and 
lack  of  cleanliness,  and  so  did  the  small  old  lady  dozinc  in 
hersem^'  arm-chan-  m  front  of  the  fire-Miss  Phillis  Dormer 

It   is   seven   weeks   since   Miss    Hendrick   returned    home. 


A'^.' 


S   DAY." 

was  (lying  out 
ad.iy  of  hitter 
■  blasts  aromid 
;1  ii|)  and  down 
Now,  with  the 
tense  cold  was; 

of  the  city,  a 
gloomy  winter 
)tliers,  shut  in 
e-chestniits  in 
L-bony  goblins 
igly  red  brick, 
air  of  neglect, 
Kxlen  wall  in- 
[lerally  closed, 
3  the  inhospit- 
)ws,  at  one  of 
a  watcher,  for 

aimlessly  out 
d  starless  sky. 
liss  Dormer's 

lout,  {ew  and 
s  f/of  a  deaf- 
:  room  is  the 
irtnient  is  dis- 

of  the  well- 
something  to 
■e_  is  a  small, 

in  riy-blown 
'or  wear  and 
dy  dozing  in 
liillis  Dormer 

urned    hojue. 


she  IS  likely  to  knowunlil  .1  ..        '^'.""^- '^  'S  and  the  only  one 

ji'.ire.  whici;  will  i^^v'ci;  4:^s'scvi^tf  ir''vi'4^^^ 

tlio  hymg  pan  to  the  lire      AM  tl      .^      ll  ^'''^•TIhI's,  from 
quicen.a.l'.  n,.  h.-r  n>ind  to  nw^e  !!       ""''  ^^'"^  "^'"^'''^k  has 

co-nrl:  with'u!r"Ttr^^!;;;  ^r"'";  ^'""-  «■-  ^--"^  ^o 

Donner  to  aro.se  ,Vc,n.e;h;r wink:",!'"  ^'""^^'"^  ^^^  ^^- 
I  way  all  that  has  hanncne!  2  i  '  w  ^''T'  "''"''"'"  '"^  ^'''^'•^'•y 
'  Sy<lney  Owenson.  I:  In  f  Zmse  of  .I'  •^'i'^^^^^-''--  visit  to 
"ot  the  world  of  l^olu.nk  an  l^f-  a'^''^^^  "'"'"''' ''''-^t  ^vas 
disappearance.  M)sS's'  ,;o  r  ',  ^f"«^?^"'«  n>y.sterious 
oils  to   Cyr-Ta',   nhy    ^  ,   ^'V'''~'^'''■'''>'^'^•^n•'n•steri- 

^''-vnon\he;l;..k  l^-of^^ui^;;  "■  ''^'T  '"i  ^^  ^^"^'i-- 

^}  all  of  the  nu-ssing  h^^^^TfT^u'''^'^  ^^^'  "«  "^ws 

and  was  now  comfo.tablv  n.i  r      \    T'  '     "'^^''  f''^' "'hole  thing, 
of  Captain  Owenso,'s  dea    -c^'   ;; 'f  """^T-     ''^''^^  ^'^""^h 
'S  clney's,  fron>  which  i    I  a     f  Iv     n     i"^  ^'^''^^"«'ed  swoon'of 
J''^'  slow  nu-serable  feve     U  a    fol  In      1   l^"''  •'"  '-^'-""^e  her-of 
J^'^'Hls  to  fue,  and  Ik.- body    fice-^^^^^^^^^^^   T'^f-  '^^"''  ''^'^^^'  '-^"^^ 
which  nothing  could  arouse  he'T;       ^'^^ '^'^'^^'^"«^  apathy  f,o,„ 
;';'o  which  the  poor,  ovIm" wo  n  d  L   ^'"'['^  '^^^n^^c  torpor 
I>onner's  imp^erious   ettc'      u'   s  '^^      "'^'"  ^•''»'"^-  ^^'^«« 

«!'^' cMigagedherselfas  hired  CO  Hni^^^^^^  '^T''''^  ^'''^'^  ^'^^^1 
BH:k-nurse  to  h.r  daugh  e,  ?  V c^  !  1  '",  -^^if-  '^^^-^^on,  or  as 
«1>^,  her  atmt,  was  ailh.g  an  1  ale  nc  n  "  ^'"  ^'  '■^''"^'•"^-'^-  ^'^at 
'■-il  i*  It  was  so  nearly  rh,  ,  '  "''  '■''^"'■''  ''^^  ^"ce  to  Mont- 
l^ack  to  school.       nc    sc^  •'  "°^''  ^'^^'''^^  ^^''^«  "«  use  goi  g 

"  ^-;,^r  Tue.1^;:^^::;;!,:-    -- ™;;l.;i.u.  a  retum  tfek^? 

-Sn^S^i-rh!;;.-^^^^^^^^ 
---;rS.;Xt£i 

P'-'ssibly  ch-eary.     Even  D    nl    fV  "'"'^  "^^  ''^'"*-     ^'  ^^'-^-^  ''"'--v 
'^--  '-I  brick  btuldin^  .u  tl  r  oo'o?r '?  ^'^'"  ''^"'"--  ^^^'-1 
;igreeable  as  a  chan<a'   and    '   >.    '  .  ,  '''"'  '^'"'-^'■^-"'ight  ]>rove 
^''^^-•Ipin'swooincrfoi-a     .,:     f  '"^'^-^  ^'^^'  ^vould  W  Mr 
,  .Jn  ,i,e  nu-ddle  ofli  °  hirl  n:    n        '''■^'  ''""^•'^^"^• 
dnck's  cab  drove  1  V'l.^  Dcren.ber  snow-storm,  Mi..  Hen 

^"  1^--  trm,k,bag  aid  shaw/ -m;:^' c.S''  ,  ''^  ^^'^'"-"' carried 

soine,  and  not  in  ii,e  lea  ?lil-:    ,.^V      '  '?"h'"-  ^^''  '-^"^J  '^^-^"'1- 

9  '  "'^^  ^''^  '^'-'ya''^"y  daughter  of  Vaga- 


i 


\l 


ic;4 


**'TIVAS  ON  A    WINTER'S  EVENING  » 


b>-»ndia  she  was,  went  up  to  the  stift'l)at:kecl  anii-chair,  and 
sto()i)e(l  her  liigh-brcd  olive  face  over  the  withered  countenance 
of  Miss  Dormer. 

•'  Dear  aunt !  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  looking  so  well. 
How  good  it  seems  to  be  at  home  again,"  she  said,  kissing  her. 

Miss  Dormer  laughed— the  shrill,  scornful  cackle  Cyrilla  re- 
membiTcd  so  well. 

"  Ha  !  "  the  cynical  old  voice  saiil.  "  You  do  well  to  begm 
in  lime,  Niece  Cyrilla.  'How  glad  you  are  to  see  me  looking 
so  well,'  indeed  !  Much  you  care  whether  I  am  well  or  ill,  so 
that  I  leave  you  my  money  when  I  die.  'How  good  it  seems  to 
be  at  home  again  !'  I  wondfr  wh(.-n  you  would  have  lefty-  r 
fine  friends  and  come  houic,  if  I  liadn't  made  you  ?  Don't  try 
it  on  with  me,  Niece  Cyrilla ;  I'm  too  elderly  a  bird  to  be 
caught  with  chaff." 

'I'his  was  Cyrilla's  welcome  to  the  only  home  she  had  on 
earth.     She  moved  away  from  her  aunt's  chair,  with  a  bitter 

smile. 

"Thank  you  for  reminding  me,  Aunt  Phil.  I  won't  try  it 
again.  1  suppose  I  may  go  lo  my  room?" 
'  "Yes,  go,  and  make  yourself  as  good-looking  as  you  like. 
You  ought  to  be  good-looking,  with  till  the  tine  clothes  I  had 
to  pay  for,  for  the  wedding -the  wedding  tiuit  never  came  off, 
ha  !  ha  1     Make  haste,  and  come  back  and  tell  me  all  about 

it." 

Cyrilla  reapi)eared  in  one  of  the  wedding-dresses,  a  soft,  rich 
blue  merino,  trinuned  with  black  lace,  Bertie  Vaughan's  hand- 
some locket  and  chain  on  her  neck,  and  sweeping  into  the  dim 
dingy  room  like  some  slender  young  duchess. 

Mr.  McKeli)in  was  coming  to  tea,  and  lo  insi)ect  his  future 
wife,  and  preparations  were  on  a  scale  of  magnitude  accordingly. 
The  old  silver,  and  rut  glass,  and  fine  Irish  linen  napory,  were 
got  out ;  there  were  cold  meat,  and  sliced  tongue,  and  masheil 
potatoes,  and  hot  rolls  for  supper. 

"If  that  estimable  man,  Mr.  MrKelpin,  had  a  weakness," 
said  Miss  Dormer,  grimly,  to  her  niece,  "-t  was  his  stomach. 
It  was  well  to  inform  her  in  time  since  it  was  to  be  her  life's 
destiny  to  cater  to  that  organ." 

Meantime  she  devoured  Cyrilla  with  questions  concerning 
th.e  weilding  that  "  was  to  have  been  and  never  was."  She 
showed  a  horrible,  a  greediiy  iciJtdsive  delight  in  every  detail. 
How  (lid  the  bride  bear  it  ?  Was  she  overwhelmed  with  pain 
and  shame,  with  mortification  and  disappuiilment  ? 


\^ 


I 


\ 


"'TIVAS  ON  A    tV/Nr/iA"S  EVENJNG.'' 


195 


h 


"Not  at  all,  Aunt  rhil,"  Cyiilla  rcspondod,  cool.y.  ««Sho 
didn't  (lire  for  the  man.  l-'rom  Inst  to  l.'st  she  thought  only  of 
her  father.  You  must  rcmeniber  she  wasn't  in  love — that  makes 
a   iifterence." 

"Ah,  yes,  that  makes  a  difference,"  said  Pliillis  Dormer,  set- 
ting her  (lUse  teeth,  the  old  fierce  light  flaming  up  in  her  dull 
eyes. 

Was  she  thinking  of  that  old  pain  and  shame,  forgotten  by 
all  tlie  world  now  save  herself?  Was  the  wound  so  long  ago 
given  not  healed  yet  ?  Was  it  possible  even  a  scar  remained 
after  five-andtwenty  years  ? 

"  Do  you  hear  from  Kngland  often  ?"  was  her  next  question. 

•'  I  never  hear,"  Cyrilla  responded  with  a  sigh.  "  Toor  papa 
may  be  dead  and  buried,  for  what  I  know." 

"And  a  very  good  thing,  too,  if  he  is,"  said  Jack  rlendrick's 
affectionate  half-sister.  "  When  men  are  of  no  use  in  tlie  woi  Ul 
the  best  thing  they  can  do  is  to  leave  it.  Did  I  tell  you,  Niece 
Cyrilla,  that  Mr.  McKelpin  was  coming  to  tea?" 

"You  mentioned  that  fact.  Aunt  Dormer." 

"  He's  coming  to  look  ■aX. you"  pursued  the  old  lady,  grimly. 
"  If  he  likes  your  looks  he'll  ask  you  to  marry  him." 

"What  bliss!"  murmurs  Miss  Hendrick.  "To-night, 
aunt  ?" 

"Don't  be  impertinent,  miss.  No,  not  to-night ;  whenever 
it  suits  him.     That's  if  he  likes  your  looks  ;  if  he  doesn't " 

"Ah,  don't  mention  the  dreadful  contingency!"  interrupts 
Cyrilla,  with  a  shudder  ;  "  let  me  at  least  live  in  hope  until  the 
fatal  hour  comes.  Surely  the  lowliest  of  his  handmaidens  will 
find  favor  in  my  lord's  sight !  " 

"  Don't  be  sarcastic.  Niece  Cyrilla.  If  there  is  one  thing 
men  hate — and  naturally— above  another,  it  is  a  sarcastic 
woman.  And  don't  interrupt  me  again.  If  you  marry  Mr. 
McKelpin  I  mean  to  make  you  my  heiress,  feeling  sure  that 
my  money  will  never  be  idly  squandered  in  his  possession.  If 
he  doesn't  care  to  marry  you,  1  vviU  leave  you  five  thousand 
dollars.  Meantime  you  are  to  read  to  me,  nurse  me  wlien  I 
am  sick,  play  and  sing  for  me,  and  make  yourself  useful  and 
agreeable  generally.  I  receive  no  conn)any — ii' ^ne  whatever. 
Mr.  McKelpin  and  the  doctor  are  the  only  men  who  ever  cross 
my  front  door.  And  I  shall  countenance  no  gadding  on  your 
part — cjuiet  and  decorous,  willing  to  resign  yosn-  own  pleasure 
to  mine,  I  expect  you  to  be.  There  is  Mr.  McKi  Ipiii's  knock. 
Joanna  will  answer  it  to-night — after  to-night  it  will  be  one  of 


'      *! 


196 


"'TWAS   ON  A    WINTER'S  EVENINGS 


I  ,■,   ■  (■ 


\\ 


your  duties  to  go  to  the  door.     The  kitchen  is  distant,  and 
Joanna  is  slow." 

"  Oood  evening,  Mr.  McKcIi)in— this  is  my  niece,  Cyrilla." 
A  short,  stout  man,  in  a  heavy  overcoat,  had  entered,  a  man 
with  a  white,  liabby,  solemn  face,  scanty  red  hair,  and  bushy 
red  winskers  ;  a  man  who  shook  hands  with  Miss  Dormer  and 
\vb<j  nodded  coldly  and  severely  to  Miss  Dormer's  niece.  For 
Cyiiihi,  she  just  inclined  that  dark,  imperial  head  of  hers  about 
the  sixteenth  of  an  inch. 

"I  am  verra  glad,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  McKelpin,  addressing 
himself  to  the  lady  of  the  house  in  a  deep,  husky  voice  and  a 
Scotch  accent,  "that  your  niece  is  back  witli  you  again. 
Running  about  does  no  young  woman  good,  depend  upon  it' 
ma'am."  ' 

"  But  I  haven't  been  running  about,  Mr.  McKelpin,"  put  in 
Miss  Hendnck,  opening  her  eyes.  "  I  never  run.  Indeed,  I 
have  been  severely  reproved  more  than  once  at  school  for  the 
blow  manner  in  which  I  walk." 

Mr  McKelpin  gazed  at  her  gravely  for  a  moment  in  reprov- 
ing silence.  It  is  said  it  requires  a  surgical  operation  ever  to 
get  a  joke  into  a  Scotchman's  head.  If  you  had  split  Mr. 
Mckeljjin  s  open  like  a  cocoa-nut  you  couldn't  have  got  in  the 
broad^'st  piece  of  sarcasm. 

"  i  did  na  refer,"  said  Mr.  McKeli)in,  with  a  magisterial 
wave  ot_  the  hand,  "  to  actual  running  in  the  sense  you  mean. 
Hume  is  the  spot  for  every  young  woman,  where  she  may 
lairn  the_  .science  and  duties  of  the  household,  and  the  state 
in  winch  it  has  pleased  Providence  to  place  her." 

"  H'm  !  let  us  go  to  lea,"  said  Miss  Dormer.  She  detected, 
It  her  solemn  friend  did  not,  tiie  irrepressible  twinkle  of  mis-- 
clnei  in  Cyrilla's  black  eyes,  and  the  fresh  impertinence  ready 
on  her  lips.     "  Niece  Cyrilla,  wheel  me  to  the  head  of  the  table." 

And  then  i)rofound  silence  ensued. 

"1  ^?  ^v^^^  ^^^^  "'"'"  ^°  ''^'ceive,  gude  Lord  make  us  thenklul," 
said  Mr.  McKelpm,  running  his  eyes  approvingly  over  the  cold 
meats  and  hot  cakes. 

No  more  was  said  for  ten  minutes,  but  actions  sometimes 
speak  louder  than  words,  and  Cyrilla's  serious  suitor  was  be- 
yond   mistake    enjoying  himself.      The    first  pangs    of  hun-er 

assuaged.  Mk^  l~),^,-in,.r  iiul  Ivr  <ni,.ct-  .-,^,  ,-  ..^,.;t.    i  <-! 

.    -^     '        '  '' '  "'"I  '"Li  guest  apjjiopnaleu  the  conver- 


sation ;  or  had,  in  th 


handed  crack ' 


e  naave  dialect  of  the 


Pundrv  stock 


over  the  weather,  the  ti 


s,  in  whicii  both  wei 


e  gentleman,  *'  a  twa- 
mes,  the  rise  and  fall  of 
e  inierestcd  ;  and  gradually,  Cy. 


I 


k 


*' 'TWAS   ON  A    WINTER'S  EVENING." 


197 


rilla's  thoughts  drifted  away  hundreds  of  miles,  and  she  forgot 
both. 

Wliat  was  Fred  Carew  about  ?  When  would  she  hear  from 
him  again  ?  His  regiment  was  not  coming  to  Montreal  until 
February — what  a  dreary  time  away  February  seemed. 

After  tea,  by  order  of  the  chatelaine,  Miss  Hendrick  aired  her 
accomplishments  for  the  benefit  of  he-  prospective  husband  ; 
she  jjlayed,  she  sang,  she  showed  her  drawings,  she  recited  a 
jjocm  in  French  and  another  in  German,  of  which  languages  Mr. 
McKeli)in  knew  as  much  as  he  did  of  Coptic  and  Runic.  JUit 
he  dcigneci  to  listen  soberly  to  all,  his  ten  fingers  clasped  before 
hiu)  as  though  in  prayer — his  chalky  sodden  face  never  losing 
its  owl-like  solemnity. 

"  Verra  good,  ver-r-a  good,  indeed,"  he  said,  when  the  per- 
formance ended.  "  You've  improved  your  opportunities  I  make 
no  doubt.  But  these  things  are  but  vanities  and  frivolity  at 
best.  Housekeei)ing  in  a'  its  brenches  and  ramifications  is  the 
great  accomplishment  the  young  miss  o'  the  praisent  day  should 
lairn." 

"  My  niece  Cyrilla  will  begin  to-morrow,"  jntt  in  the  pi|)ing 
voice  of  Miss  Dormer.  "It  is  niy  intention  she  shall  spend 
three  hours  of  each  day  in  the  kitchen  under  the  instructions  of 
Joanna." 

And  so  life  began  for  Cyrilla.  Three  hours  a  day  in  a  calico 
dress,  in  a  hot  kitch'  under  the  tuition  of  a  deaf  old  cook, 
learning  the  mysteries  oi  puddings  and  ])ies,  roa  ;ts  and  broils,  for 
the  fiiture  delectation  of  Donald  McKelpin.  Four  hours  of 
reading  and  playing  for  Auni  '  trmer  ;  no  visitors,  no  going  out, 
except  at  stated  times  with  a  market  basket.  CyrUla's  soul 
loathed  it  all.  She  hated  household  duties ;  she  abhorred 
cooking  :  she  nearly  stiiied  herself  witli  yawns,  reading  aloud. 
Oh!  the  deadly — deadly  dullness  of  it'l  Then  Mr.  McKel- 
pin's  evenings,  three  in  a  w^k,  to  play  long  whist  at  a  penny  a 
game  with  Miss  Dormer,  each  greedily  eager  to  win,  and  taking 
no  notice  of  her  yawning  drearily  in  the  background.  What  a 
Ciu-istmas  that  was — wiiat  a  New  'Year — what  a  January  1 
Would  Cyrilla  ever,  ever  forget  it  I 

r>ut  the  stagnant  calm  was  near  its  end,  and  Mr.  McKeli)in, 
of  all  men,  the  man  to  break  it. 

Stolid,  dull,  lumbering  as  the  man  was,  he  yet  was  a  man,  and 
as  such  had  from  the  first  cast  an  eye  of  approval  upon  the  tall 
symmetrical  figure,  and  haughtily  handsome  face  of  Miss  Dor 
mer's  youthful  relative. 


198 


'''TIVAS   CN  A    WINTER'S  EVENING.''' 


:tt' 


"Your  niucc  is  a  verra  well-favored  young  woman,  Miss  Dor 
nier,"  was  all  he  had  ever  said  about  it ;  but  the  admiration  was 
there,  and  in  due  course  of  time  worked  itself  out  of  his  slow 
soul  to  the  surface.  One  evening  early  in  February,  at  half  past 
eight  lo  a  minute  (he  religiously  left  at  nine),  Mr  McKelpin 
oi>ened  his  mouth,  and  in  words  grave,  sedate  and  {k^w,  in  the 
l)resence  of  the  two  ladies,  asked  the  younger  to  do  him  the 
favor  of  becoming  his  wife. 

"There's  a  disparity  o'  years,  I  am  well  aware,"  slowly  and 
austerely  said  Donald  McKelpin,  "but  the  disparity  is  on  the 
right  side.  For  my  own  ])airt,  1  think  it's  always  best  for  a  frivo- 
lous young  pairson  of  the  female  sex  to  be  united  in  wedlock 
\vi'  a  man  considerably  her  senior.  You  have  given  nie  to  un- 
derstand, Miss  Dormer,  that  you'll  look  wi'  the  eye  o'  favor  on 
the  match,  and  so,  if  Miss  Cyrilla's  willing,  in  the  name  o' 
Providence,  we'll  consider  the  thing  settled." 

And  the  thing  was  settled.  What  she  said  to  this  inipas- 
sioned  declaration  Cyrilla  never  knew;  .she  was  only  conscious  at 
the  time  of  a  hysterical  desire  to  burst  out  laughing.  But  Aunt 
Phil's  fierce  old  eye  was  upon  her,  so  she  controlled  the  insane 
desire,  and  there  and  then  became  the  affianced  of  Mr. 
Donald  McKelinn.  The  next  time  he  came  he  brought  with 
him  an  engagement  ring  of  ])lain  gold,  his  n^other's  wedding 
ring,  m  fact,  and  worn  rather  thin,  and  with  elephantine  playful- 
ness pressed  it  ui)on  his  bride's  acceptance. 

Miss  Hendrick  took  it  with  an  unmoved  countenance,  and 
put  it  on  the  finger  that  wore  poor  Freddy  Carew's.  'Poor 
Freddy  Carew,  indeed !  He  wrote  to  Miss  Hendrick  regularly, 
and  as  Miss  Hendrick  always  answered  the  door  she  received 
his  letters  without  the  slightest  trouble  or  danger,  and  most  regu- 
larly respondetl.  Mr.  Carew.  therefore,  wa's  not  left  to  pine 
in  ignorance  of  Miss  Hendrick's  matrimonial  good  fortune. 
This  cold  February  day  on  which  she  stands,  idly  gazing  out  of 
the  window,  has  been  a  day  more  than  usually  eventful  among 
the  eventless  days  of  her  life.  The  early  morning  mail  brought 
a  letter  from  Mrs.  Owenson  announcing  her  dejjarture  \vith 
Sydney  for  New  York,  to  spend  March  and  April. 

'  My  dear  girl  is  still  in  miserably  poor  health  and  low  spirits," 
wrote  Mrs.  Owenson.  "and  I  am  taking  her  to  my  cousin's 
Mrs.  Macgregor,  of  Madison  Avenue.  Change  of  scene  .ind 
the  cheerful  companionship  of  jier  cousins'"  will  no  doubt 
cheer  her  up.  Jn  May  we  go  to  Europe,  to  remain  two  years 
at  least.     Sydney  will  write  further  particulars  by  next  mail." 


^ 


*''TWAS   OV  A    IVINTER'S  EVENINGS 


199 


O' 


\. 


Happy  Sydney  Owenson !  Cyrilla  enviously  sighs.  Yes 
happv,  thrice  liappy  in  spite  of  her  bereavement.  To  Miss  Hen- 
drick'  it  looks  no  such  great  bereavement  after  all.  She  didn't 
care  for  Jlcrlie  Vaughan,  empty-headed,  conceited  noodle  that  he 
was  !  n  h1  for  her  fatiier — well,  of  course,  a  doting,  resi)ectal)le 
and  ;  father  is  a  person  to  be  grieved  for — still,  to  Miss 
Hem;,  >:'s  philoso[)hic  mind,  it  wasn't  a  grief  to  embitter  the 
life  of  an  heiress.  A  winter  in  New  York— ah  !  lucky 
Syilney — two  years  in  Eurojje — thrice-blessed  orphan  heiress  ! 
Beauty  and  wealth  unlimited.  Yes!  Sydney  Owenson  was 
one  of  the  elect  of  the  earth,  one  of  the  darlings  of  the 
gods. 

The  second  event  was  the  news  that  morning's  paper  had 

given   her.     The  th  had   arrived   in    Montreal,  and   were 

quartered  here  for  the  winter.     So  !   Freddy  was  come,  and  she 
would  see  a  sympathetic  human  face  at  last. 

The  third  event  was  the  departure  of  Mr,  AfcKelpin  for  Scot- 
land on  the  morrow,  to  be  absent  until  the  first  week  in  June. 
The  wedding  is  fixed  for  the  close.  This  will  be  the  last  night 
for  over  three  months  the  devoted  Donald  will  si)end  in  the 
company  of  his  betrothed.  But  as  she  stands  here  and  looks 
dreamily  out,  it  is  not  of  her  betrothed,  I  regret  to  say.  Miss 
liendrick  is  thinking.  Where — when— how— will  she  see  Fred 
Carew  ?  Poor  Freddy  !  he  has  not  said  much  in  his  letters 
about  her  faithlessness,  but  the  news  of  her  betrothal  has  been 
as  gall  and  wormwood  to  him,  she  knows. 

"Shut  the  shutters,  Niece  Cyrilla,  and  don't  stand  mooning 
there  all  night.  1  suppose  you  have  been  crying  quietly  over 
the  dei)arture  of  Mr.  McKelpin  ?  " 

Thus  sharply  and  sneeringly  aroused  from  her  nap  by  Miss 
Dormer,  Cyrilla  obeys. 

"  I  never  cry,  Aunt  Phil ;  it  is  one  of  the  principles  of  my 
life,  and  not  even  for  Mr.  McKelpin's  sweet  sake  can  I  break 
through  it.     Shall  1  tell  Joanna  to  fetch  in  tea?" 

"  You'll  get  something  to  cry  for  yet,  mark  my  words,  hard 
as  you  are,"  croaks  Miss  Dormer. 

"As  Mr.  McKel[)in's  wife?  I  think  it  extremely  likely," 
cheerfiilly  assents  Cyrilla.  "  Still  I  shall  put  off  the  evil  day 
until  the  evil  day  comes.     Shall  1  call  Joanna?" 

"  Yes,  call,"  says  Aunt  Phil,  snappi-;hly.  Their  encounters 
are  shar[)  and  frec^uent,  and  she  generally  finds  herself  worsted. 
Cyrilla  is  her  dependent,  certainly,  but  Cyrilla  does  not  hold 
her  pauper  head  in  that  haughty  way  for  nothing.      She  keeps 


200 


"'TWAS   ON  A    WINTEFTS  EVENING:' 


'I  I  I 


%\ 


■^\ 


1km-  own  well  will:  Miss  Dormer,  and  Miss  Dormer  likes  her  none 
llie  less  for  it. 

Joanna  con)es  with  their  daily  bread  and  butter  and  cold 
meat.  It  is  a  silent  meal.  'J1ie  old  maid  is  thinking  how  she 
Avdl  miss  long  whist  and  Mr.  McKelpin,  in  the  empty,  endless, 
J\larch  evenings  so  near.  The  young  maid  is  thinking  how  much 
brighter  a  look  life  has  taken  on  since  I'VedCarew  is  in  Montreal. 

Ilalfpast  seven  brings  Mr.  McKelpin.  He  shakes  hands  in 
n  stilt  way  with  his  affianced,  and  hands  her  that  evening's  paper, 
and  sits  down  to  his  last  game  with  Miss  Dormer.  Tiiere  is 
silence  ;  a  j)araffin  lamp  burns  between  them,  the  fire  looks  red 
and  cheerful,  the  room  cozy  and  comfortable,  contrasted  with 
die  bleak  coldness  of  the  winter  night  outside.     Miss  Hendrick 

IS  reading  the  paper,  searching  for  further  news  of  the th, 

when  loud  and  long  there  comes  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"The  postman !"  cries  Cyrilla,  starting  up;  "a  letter  from 
Sydney." 

She  rushes  from  the  room,  down  the  stairs,  and  throws  open 
the  door.  A  man  stands  there,  but  it  is  not  the  i)ostman.  He 
!.s  not  so  tall  as  the  postman,  and  he  looks  military.  He  wears 
a  sealskin  jacket  and  cap,  the  visor  of  the  cap  pulled  over  his 
eyes — he  wears  sealskin  gloves  and  carries  a  cane. 

"Ah-h!"  says  this  gentleman;  "can  you  tell  me  if  Mrs. 
P>rown  lives  here?" 

Cyrilla  stands  petrified.  Surely  she  knows  that  voice  Her 
heart  beats  as  it  has  not  beaten  for  four  months.  Can  it— can 
it  be 

"  Does  Mrs.  Brown  live  here,  Beauty  ?  "  asks  again  thut  famil- 
iar voice. 

He  raises  his  cap;  the  wan  glimmer  of  the  hall  lamp  falls  full 
on  his  flice,  the  .serene,  smiling  face  of  Fred  Carevv. 

Miss  Hendrick  gives  one  gasp. 

"  Oh,  Freddy  !  "  is  what  she  says. 

"How  do  you  do,  Beauty  ?'■  says  Mr.  Carew,  pleasantly. 
"Shake  hands,  won't  you,  or  is  it  permitted  the  future  Mrs. 
M eKel[)in  to  go  that  far  ?     You  see  I  got  to  Montreal  this  morn- 


!->» 


and  naturally  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to  look  you  up. 


^  "But  to  come  here— to  Aunt  Dormer's  house  I    Oh,  Fred  I  " 
Cyrilla  gasps  again. 

"  To  the  dragon's  den.  But  then,  really  you  know,  I  {wssess 
an  overwlielmn-ig  ;uiiount  of  courage.  And  1  Knew  from  your 
letters  that  no  one  ever  came  to  the  door  but  yourself.  Yoy 
told  me,  you  remember  "i  " 


1 

J 


i 


"'TWAS  ON  A    WINTER'S  EVENING:' 


20I 


V 


"But  I  dare  not  stay.  Aunt  Dormer  will  miss  me  ;  she  and 
Mr.  McKelpin  arc  playing  cards  now." 

"  Hut  you  can  go  back  and  steal  out  again,  can't  you,  Beauty  j" 
Say  you  have  a  headache  and  .vant  to  go  to  your  room.  I'll 
wait  yonder  under  the  trees.  Only  don't  keep  me  long.  Even 
friendship  so  glowing  and  ardent  as  mine  may  get  chilled  if 
kept  too  long  in  a  Montreal  I'libruary  night." 

"I'll  try!  I'll  come!"  Cyrilla  exclaims.  "  Wait,  Freddy  ; 
I'll  be  with  you  in  ten  minutes  ! " 

Slie  shuts  the  door  and  flies  back.  The  glad,  excited  gleam 
of  her  eyes  might  tell  its  story,  but  the  card-players  are  too 
much  engrossed  with  their  game  to  take  heed. 

"  Well,  who  was  it  ?  "  jviiss  Dormer  ([uerulously  asks.  She 
has  lost  ninepence  and  feels  badly  accordinuly.  "More 
letters?" 

"  No  ;  a  man  ;  he  asked  if  Mrs.  Brown  lived  here,"  demurely 
aiiswered  Miss  Hendrick. 

"Mrs.  Brown,  indeed.  Your  deal,  Mr.  McKelpin  ;  luck 
will  surely  turn  this  time.  Did  you  bolt  the  door  after  him, 
Cyrilla  ?  " 

"  Certainly.     Aunt  Dormer  !  " 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  AVhile  you're  finishing  this  game  I'll  run  up  to  my  room — my 
head  rather  aches,  and  I'li  bathe  it  with  cami)hor." 

Miss  Dormer  is  too  deeply  absorbed  in  the  new  deal  to  re- 
jily.  Cyrilla  departs.  Five  seconds  later  and  she  is  under 
the  stripi)ed  chestnuts,  both  hands  clasped  fast  in  Fred  Carew's. 

"  Oh,  Fred,  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  How  good  of  you  to 
come." 

"  Coodness  is  my  normal  state,  Beauty."  The  first  greetings 
are  over  by  this  time.  "  And  so  I  really  behold  before  me  the 
affianced  of  Mr.  Donald  McKelpin  ?  " 

"  You  really  do,  and  as  such  please  relinquish  my  hands ;  my 
shawl  is  as  warm  as  as  your  fur  gloves.  Mr.  McKelpin  doesn't 
approve  of  indecorous  familiarities." 

"Doesn't  he?  Excepting  himself,  of  course.  He  is  privi- 
eged,  lucky  beggar  i  "  says  iVlr.  Carew,  with  a  sigh. 

"Not  even  excepting  himself  He  comes  three  evenings  a 
week,  says  *  How  d'ye  do,  Miss  Cyrilla  ?  '  and  gives  me  a  hand 
like  a  dead,  danij)  fish.  1  never  know  what  to  do  with  it.  .so  I 
give  it  back  to  him  again." 

"  And  when  is  the  wedding  to  come  off,  may  I  ask.  Miss 
Hendrick?"  '       /  » 

I.* 


2o: 


**'ny.lS   ON  A    WINTER'S  EVENING.'' 


\    \ 


"  Yoli  may  ask,  Mr.  Carevv.  To  come  off,  Deo  I'olcnie,  the 
last  week  of  June." 

"Jjcauty,"  Mr.  Carew  says,  gravely,  "how  is  this  to  end?" 

"  Jn  a  cold  in  the  head  for  me  most  likely,"  laughs  Cyrilla, 
wilfully  misunderstanding.  "  Don't  look  so  doleful,  Fred — it 
doesn't  become  you.  June  is  June — this  is  February,  and  1  am 
Cyrilla  Hendrick  still.  He  goes  off  to-morrow — Dicutncrci — 
to  be  gone  three  months.  Oh,  if  some  kind  Christian  would 
invite  me  out  to  spend  an  evening,  we  might  meet  and  have  a 
chat  now  and  then." 

"That  is  easily  enougli  managed,  if  your  dragon  will  let  you 
go.  Mrs.  Delamere  is  liere,  ancl  she  shall  call  upon  you  and 
invite  you.  The  Colonel  is  about  to  retire  from  the  army,  and 
they  sail  for  England  in  April.  If  she  calls,  do  you  think  Miss 
Dormer  will  let  }ou  go  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,  so  long  as  she  does  not  suspect  you  are  here. 
VVarn  Mrs.  Delamere.  If  my  aunt  knew  you  were  in  Montreal, 
I  believe  she  would  never  let  me  out  of  her  sight.  And  now, 
I'Yeddy,  1  positively  must  go." 

He  does  not  detain  her.  It  is  very  cold,  and  cold  Mr.  Carew 
does  not  like. 

"Mrs.  Delamere  shall  call  to-morrow;  you  will  come  to  her 
house,  and  we  can  talk  things  over  where  the  thermometer  is 
not  a  hundred  or  so  below  zero.  Don't  make  your  farewells  to 
the  Scotchman  too  affectionate,  IJeauty,  i)lease,  because  my 
prophetic  soul  tells  me  you'll  never  write  your  name  Cyrilla 
McKelpin." 

The  game  of  whist  is  finished  as  she  enters,  and  the  clock  is 
striking  nine.  Miss  Dormer  has  won  her  ninepence  back,  and 
is  in  high  good  spirits  once  more.  Colorless  and  smileless,,  Mr. 
McKelpin  stands  uj)  and  buttons  his  coat  to  go. 

"  (lood-by.  Miss  Dormer."  He  shakes  hands.  "  Gooti-by, 
Miss  Cyrilla."  'J'he  dead  damp  fish  is  extended  to  her.  "  You'll 
write  to  me  occasionally,  I  hope,  while  1  am  gone  ?  " 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  Cyrilla  answers,  with  cheerful  alacrity.  "  I 
wish  you  a  pleasant  voyage,  Mr.  McKelpin.'-' 

He  is  gone.  Miss  Dormer  retires  to  her  room.  Joanna  bolts 
and  bars  the  house.  Cyrilla  makes  her  aunt's  night  toilet  and 
sees  iier  safely  in  bed.  'i'hen  she  goes  to  her  own  room,  lets 
down  her  hair,  ?>\m\  looks  at  her  own  face  in  the  glass — a  face 
that  has  not  looked  back  at  her  with  so  happy,  so  bright  a 
glance,  for  three  weary  moiiths.  As  she  looks  and  smiles,  Fred 
Carew's  questicn  relu;  ns  to  her — "  Beauty,  how  is  this  to  end  ?  " 


"07/,   WHISTLE,  AND  PLL    COME    TO    VE."        203 

"flow,  indeed  !  "  slie  thinks,  '*  in  disaster  for  nie,  I  haven't  th^ 
sLiglitest  doid)t.  lUit  meantime  Donald  has  gone  and  Freddy 
has  come,  and  let  it  end  how  it  may,  1  shall  be  happy  until  the 
close  of  June,  at  least." 


CHAPTER   XXII. 


^ 


V 


"oh,  whistle,  and  I'll  comp:  to  ye,  my  lad." 

R.  McKKLPIN  departed  next  morning  from  Montreal, 
and  that  evening  there  was  no  long  whist,  a  penny  a 
game,  at  Dormer  House.  Instead,  Cyrilla  read  aloud 
a  drearily  (lull  novel,  over  which  she  yawned  surre[iti- 
tiously,  and  Miss  I)t)rmer  yawned  aloud.  And  tliis  was  but  the 
beginning  of  the  end,  the  elder  lady  thought  bitterly,  but  the 
beginning  of  a  long  series  of  such  dull-as-death  days  and  nights. 
True,  when  Mr.  McKel|)in  was  Cyrilla's  husband  the  card-play- 
ing would  be  resumed,  but  meantime 

There  can  be  no  doubt  at  this  point  of  her  career  but  that  old 
Miss  Dormer  would  have  married  Donald  McKeli)in  herself  f(jr 
the  sake  of  his  society,  in  spite  of  her  fifty-.  >dd  years  and  crooked 
back,  if  a  hopeless  infirmity  had  not  stood  in  her  way.  There 
can  also  be  no  doubt  but  that  McKelpin  would  have  married 
her  if  she  had  made  it  a  si/ze  gua  non.  No  one  in  Montreal 
knew  exactly  how  much  Miss  Dormer  was  worth  as  accu'-ately 
as  ho  did.  In  his  secret  soul  (if  he  possessed  such  a  sanctuary)  he 
may  have  preferred  the  slim,  dusk,  handsome  niece,  but  if  he  had 
had  to  choose  between  the  niece  of  nineteen,  pe:;*.iless,  and  the 
aunt  of  five-and-fifty,  with  half  a  million,  Donald  would  not  have 
hesitated.  He  was  hard-headed  by  nature  and  by  nationality,  but 
he  was  not  destined  to  be  put  to  the  test.  Miss  Dormer  dying 
slowly  in  her  chair  of  an  incurable  distemper,  could  not  dream 
of  marriage  for  herself,  and  so,  as  the  next  best  thing,  i)assed  him 
on  to  Cyrilla.  In  any  case  she  meant  him  to  have  her  money, 
and  he  could  hardly  do  less  than  take  her  destitute  niece 
with  it. 

Another  heavy  day,  another  dragging  evening,  both  ladies 
gai)ing  over  their  it  sipid  novel  until  the  Finis  was  reached. 


204         "  on,   WHISTLE,  AND  PLL   COME  TO    VE." 

Outside,  the  February  winds  rattled  the  trees  and  sent  the  sleet 
drifting  against  the  windows.  Inside,  firelight  and  lamplight  did 
their  best  to  disjjel  the  vapors,  and  did  their  best  in  vain.  Phil- 
lis  Dormer's  old  eyes  went  drearily  to  the  card  table  ;  Cyrilla 
llendrick's  looked  restlessly  into  the  ruby  heart  of  the  fire,  and 
both  could  have  wailed  with  Tennyson  : 

•'Oh,  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  tiiat  is  still  !  " 

Only,  naturally,  each  was  thinking  of  a  different  hand  and 
voice. 

The  afternoon  of  the  third  day  brought  Mrs.  Delaniere. 
Cyrilla,  as  usual,  answered  the  door,  and  after  ten  minutes' 
private  chat,  came  back  to  her  aunt's  room,  a  flush  of  hope  and 
expectation  in  her  eyes. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  Miss  Dormer  fretfully  asked. 

**  Mrs.  Colonel  Delaniere,  aunt.  You  have  heard  me  tell 
how  kind  she  was  to  me  at  Petite  St.  Jacques.  The  Colonel  is 
about  to  retire  from  the  army,  and  they  sail  for  England,  where 
he  has  a  large  estate,  in  April.  Meantime  they  are  staying  in 
Montreal.  She  wishes  veiy  much  to  make  your  acquaintance, 
Aunt  Dormer.     May  I  ask  her  up  ?  " 

Miss  Dormer  looked  keenly  and  susjjiciously  at  her  niece. 

"  What  does  she  want  to  make  my  acquaintance  for,  a  crijv 
pled,  miserable  old  creature  like  me  ?  What  does  she  want  of 
me  ?  " 

"  She  wants  nothing  but  the  pleasure  of  knowing  you.  1 
told  her  you  never  saw  any  one,  but  she  begged  you  would 
kindly  make  an  exception  in  her  favor.  Shall  1  tell  her  you 
will  not  see  her  ?  " 

"  And  insult  a  stranger  in  my  own  house  ?  No,  Niece 
Cyrilla.     I  loil/  see  her.     Show  her  up." 

Mrs.  Colonel  Delamere,  imjiosing  in  brown  silk  and  velvets, 
was  shown  up  accordingly ;  and  quite  awed  for  a  moment,  by 
her  size  and  splendor,  even  grim  Aunt  Phil.  But  she  was  so 
cordial,  so  chatty,  so  friendly,  that  the  awe  speedily  vanished 
and  a  pleasant  excitement  took  its  place. 

She  stayed  for  over  an  hour,  retailed  all  the  news  of  the  dav, 
discussed  Canada  and  England,  and  Miss  Dormer  actually 
experienced  a  feeling  of  regret  when  at  last  she  arose  to  go. 

"  1  have  overstayed  my  time,"  she  said,  with  her  soft,  mel- 
low laugh  ;  "  but  really,  it  is  so  pleasant  to  meet  a  kindred  s[)irit, 
and  countrywoman,  with  whom  to  abuse  Canada,  its  dreadful 


"0//,   WHISTLE,  AND  PLL    COME    TO    VE:'         205 

climate  and  dreadful  customs.  Dear  Miss  T")ornicr,  you  really 
sliouldn't  lead  the  life  of  a  recluse,  a:*  yon  do  ;  it  is  positively 
unkind  to  your  friends.  At  least  you  must  make  me  the  c-x- 
cei)tion  to  your  rule.  And,  meantime,  as  a  great  favor,  I  nuist 
beg  of  you  to  let  this  cliikl  come  to  see  me.  She  was  one  of 
my  especial  pets  at  Petite  St.  Jaccjues,  and,  remember,  I  leave  in 
April,  and  may  never  see  her  again." 

Miss  Dormer's  face  darkened. 

"  She  never  goes  out,"  she  said,  querulously  ;  "  I  can't  spare 
her," 

"  Ah  !  but,  dear  Miss  Dormer,  as  a  great  favor  to  me.  She 
and  Miss  Ovvenson  were  (luite  like  my  own  daughters.  And  as 
she  tells  me  she  is  to  be  married  so  soon  to  a  most  estimable 
inan— June,  is  it  not,  Cyrilla,  love  ?— you  should  allow  her  a 
little  more  liberty.  She  must  know  somebody  as  Mr.  McKel- 
pin's  wife.  I  am  sure  he  would  wish  it  himself,  and  I  promise 
you  she  shall  know  none  but  the  very  nicest  people." 

"Well,"  Miss  Dormer  said,  slowly  and  reluctantly;  <' but, 
mind,  if  she  does,  no  gadding,  no  flirting  with  young  men — I 
■won't  have  it." 

"Flirting!"  Mrs.  Delamere  rejieated,  in  a  voice  of  horror. 
"  Really,  Miss  Dormer,  how  can  you  think  such  a  thing  of  me? 
No,  \\o  !  even  if  our  dear  girl  were  inclined— and  I  am  sure 
she  is  much  too  sensible — 1  would  never  countenance  such 
levity  in  an  engaged  young  lady.  I  receive,  next  Tuesday,  Cy- 
rilla,  love.  Tlie  carriage  shall  call  for  you  very  early.  Only  a 
few  friends.  Miss  Dormer — not  three  unmarried  men  among 
them.  (^,ood  afternoon,  my  dear  lady,  and  a  thousand  thanks 
for  your  kind  permission." 

"Humph!"  grunted  Miss  Dormer,  distrustfully.  "You're 
a  deal  too  sweet,  ma'am,  for  my  taste— too  sweet  bv  half  to  be 
wholesome  ! " 

Cyrilla  laughed  noiselessly  as  she  escorted  her  fat  friend  to 
the  front  door. 

"  How  well  you  did  it !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  What  an  unde- 
veloi)ed  talent  for  intrigue  you  must  jjossess,  Mrs.  Delamere  ! 
1  believe  I  should  have  gone  melancholv  mad  before  spring  if 
you  had  not  come." 

Tuesday  night  was  five  days  off,  and  during  these  five  davs 
Miss  Hendrick  saw  nothing  nf  Mr.  Carew.  She  received 
several  notes  from  him,  however,  in  his  usual  brief  and  trench- 
ant style ;  and  brightened  up  so,  under  thrir  inlluencc.  and  the 
thought  of  Tuesday  night,  that  she  looked  quite  a  new  being. 


£ 


m 


•■  if 


ao6      «•(?//,  ivmsTU',  and  vll  come  to  ye.'' 

Miss  Dormer  saw  it,  with  a  great  many  sneers  and  croaks,  but 
Cvrilla  bore  all  with  anj^elic  i)atien(;e.  Aunt  I'hil  would  not 
relruct  her  pliglUed  woril.  and  she  asked  no  more. 

Very  early— before  eight  o'clock,  in  fact— the  Delamere 
sleigh  ■  was  at  the  door,  and  Cyrilla,  looking  very  eager  and 
handsome,  threw  on  In-r  wraps,  and  was  driven  off. 

"  Mind,  be  back  early— by  midniglit  at  the  latest  1"  croaked 
Miss  Dormer  after  her.      "  Joanna  shall  sit  up  for  you."^ 

The  drive  was  not  ten  minutes  long.  Mrs.  Delamere's  "fur- 
nished ai)artments  "  were  brilliant  with  gaslight ;  and,  early  as 
she  was,  Cyrilla  found  one  guest  before  her— a  very  tall,  elderly 
young  lady,  wearing  diamonds  and  cerise  silk,  and  to  whom  she 
was  inlrcxluced  as  "  Mrs.  Iu)garty." 

"  1  had  no  idea  she  would  have  come  at  this  absurd  hour, 
whispered  Mrs.  Dekunere  to  her  prot'c^cc.  "  She's  a  widow,  out 
of  weeds,  as  you  see,  inunensely  rich,  and  very  much  sought 
after  on  that  account.  Leaving  her  money  out  of  the  (luestion, 
she  has  that  kittenish,  co(iuetlish  style  that  takes— Heaven 
knctws  why— with  men,  and  is  sure  to  make  a  heavy  evening  go 
off.  The  late  lamented  (liis  name  makes  patent  his  nationality) 
was  forty  years  her  senior,  a  pork  man,  and,  as  I  have  said,  im- 
mensely rich.  After  the  two  years  of  nuptial  bliss  he  departed 
-  to  a  better  world,  let  us  trust,  since  he  was  frightfully  hen- 
))e(ked  in  this." 

Miss    Hendrick   laughed    as  she  threw  off  her    cloak,   and 
smoothed  her  shining  coiled  hair. 

"1  haven't  seen  much  of  Mrs.  l'\)garty  as  yet,"  she  said, 
"but  from  the  little  I  have,  I  should  think  any  change  the  pork 
man  could  make  would  be  for  the  better.  Two  years  of  her 
unalloyed  society  I  should  say  would  be  enough  to  kill  any  man." 
"The  droll  thing  about  it  is,"  pursued  Mrs,  Delamere,  with 
an  odd  little  sidelong  glance  at  her  young  friend,  "is  that  she  has 
come  here  at  this  unheard-of  hour,  and  overdressed,  as  you  per- 
ceive— all  for  the  sake  of  Frt'd  Carew." 
'      "  What  !''  exclaimed  Cyrilla,  knitting  her  brows. 

"  I'erfectly  true,  I  assure  you.  She  met  him  three  days  ago 
fi)r  the  fust  time,  and  conceived  a  tcndrcssc  for  him  at  sight. 
She  always  has  a  (cndirsse  for  some  one.  This  morning  she 
encountered  Carew  and  the  Colonel  in  St.  James  Street,  and  the 
Colonel,  in  his  usual  ridiculous  way,  told  her  iMcddy  was  com- 
ing early — very  early,  to  smoke  a  cigar  with  him,  and  he  hoped 
she  would  come  early  also  and  help  entertain  uim  !  The  re- 
Bull — there  she  is  !" 


! 


and 


*•  on,   IVIIISTLP.,  Al^D  I'LL    COME    TO    YE."        207 

«'  Is  llu;  woman  an  idiot  ?"  Cyrilla  scornfully  asked. 

"Oil,  dear  no!  Freddy  generally  does  nuike  an  inii)iession 
on  elderly  young  women  at  sight.  Witness  Miss  Jones  of  the 
Penswiuiat.  Only  it  is  not  every  elderly  young  lady  who  wears 
her  heart  on  her  sleeve  as  frankly  as  does  A[rs.  I'ogarty." 

«*  For  the  sake  of  common  decency  I  should  hope  not,"  rc- 
,torts  Miss  Hendrick  vith  cold  scorn. 

I  "  Hu'h,  dear  !  here  we  are,"  says  Afrs.  Delamere.  She  opens 
the  door  of  the  drawmg  room  and  sails  majestically  in.  Miss 
llen(  rick  follows  and  sees— I'Vcd  Carew,  faultless  and  elegant 
to  behold,  a  camellia  in  his  button-hole,  sitting  on  a  sofa  by 
Mrs.  Fogarty's  side,  submitting  to  being  made  love  to,  with  his 
customary  serene  and  courleous  face. 

"  Mr.  Carew,  Miss  Hendrick.  You  may  remember  meeting 
Mr.  Carew  once  before,  Cyrilla,  love,"  says  Mrs.  Delamere, 
blandly.  And  Mr.  Carew  arises,  and  bows  i>leasantly  and  makes 
a  smiling,  foolish  little  speech  about  "the  pleasure— er— of  re- 
newing Miss  Hendrick's— um-acquaintance,"  etc.;  and  Miss 
llemlnck  bends  her  rather  haughty-looking  head,  and  moves 
ciisdamfully  away. 

A  batch  of  arrivals  enter;  the  hostess  sweei)s  forward  to  meet 
them      Mr.  Carew  makes  an  effort  to  get   up   and  follow  Miss 
Hendrick  to  where  she  has  seated  herself  at  a  distant  table,  and 
opened  that  refuge  of  the  destitute,  a  photographic  album.    IJut 
Mrs   i'ogarty  is  a  veteran  of  four-and-thirty,  although  she  does 
not  look  It,  and  is  equal  to  the  occasion.     For  the  sake  of  Mr 
Carew  she  has  put  on  her  diamonds,  her  Point  d'Alen(;on,  and 
her  cense  silk,  and  come  to  Mrs.  Delamere's  "Tuesday"  is  it 
liKely  then  she  will  allow  Mr.  Carew  to  tly  off  at  a  tangent? 
In  her  practised  hands,  Freddy  is  as  an  artless  mouse  in  the 
grasp    of  a  skillful,    elderly   mouser.     By  her  side  he  is,  by 
her  side  he  shall  remain  !  ^ 

And  he  does.  He  cannot  break  away— he  cannot  tell  how-  • 
he  makes  halfa-dozen  attempts— she  skilfully  meets  and  baf- 
lles  them  all.  Without  positive  rudeness  he  cannot  quit  her  side  • 
and  positive  rudeness,  even  to  a  Mrs.  Fogarty,  is  something  l-red 
IS  <iuile  incapable  of.  He  sees  Cyrilla  monopolized  by  half-a- 
do/.cn  of  his  brother  officers,  looking  handsome  and  briUiant- 
lier  clear,  sarcastic  laugh  comes  to  him  where  he  sits,  and  he 
groans  in  anguish  of  spirit.  At  Last-he  never  knows  how-he 
rises— lie  says  something— Mrs.  Fogarty  may  know  what  ;  he 
never  does-.nakes  a  bow,  and  t^nds  himself  by  Cyrilla'b 
side.     She  is  alone,  the  last  of  the  warriors  for  the  moment  ha" 


!<■ 


208         ♦'  O.f,   WUISTU'.,  AND  I'LL   COME   TO    Y/i." 


I  I 


deserted  hci,  and  she  looks  upon  Mr.  Carew  with  no  friendly 
eye. 

"  '  Miin's  inhumanity  to  man,'  "  murnmrs  poor  Kreddy,  in  a 
Liintivd  tone,  •• 'makes  countless  tliuiisands  mourn.'  15  it  what  is 
,      uh  !  what  i«  it— compared  witli  the  inhumanity  of  woman?" 

**  I  don't  k»i'»w  what  you  are  talking  about,"  says  Miss  Hen- 
u, '"  k,  (iconifully. 

"  I  tried  to  get  away,  '  <  "utinucs  \rr.  Carew  in  the  same  pite- 
ous voice,  "give  you  my  honor  I  did,  lieaiUy,  more  than  oiu;e, 
and  she  wouldn't  let  me.  What  did  she  do  it  for  ?  VVha!  grudge 
docs  she  b^  ir  me  ?     I  never  did  anything  to  /icrf  " 

"Can't  you  see — ii  i»l)ocile,"  says  Miss  llendrick,  still  more 
scornfully,  but  incliiw  to  laugh  ;  the  wonuui's  in  love  with 
you — painted,  simi)ering  ninny!  I  sat  here  and  watched  you, 
and  thought  1  never  in  all  my  life  saw  a  more  idiotic-looking 
pair ! " 

"  In  love  with  me  1  Oh,  g(50(l  heaven  !  "  exclaims  Afr.  Ca- 
rew, so  nnu:h  gemiine,  u -•.affected  horror  in  his  tone  that  Cyrilla 
laughs  oulriglit.      "  You  never  mean  to  tell  me  that !" 

"My  dear  Mr.  Carew,"  leplies  Miss  Hendrick,  "a  woman 
who  will  paint  and  powder  to  the  extent  that  woman  is  paint,  d 
and  powdered,  is  simpleton  enougli  for  anything — even  to  falling 
in  love  with  you.  She's  seven  and  thirty  if  she's  a  day,  and 
she's  made  uj)  to  look  seventeen.  Observe  those  shoulder- 
blades  and  those  cheek-bones — wonien  never  get  that  look  this 
side  of  thirty.  She's  worth  no  end  of  money  made  in  Pork — 
with  a  large  P — and  she  has  cast  the  eye  of  favor  upon  your 
manifold  cliarms,  Freddy,  Let  me  be  the  first  to  congratulate 
you  1  " 

"  IJeauty,"  says  Mr.  Carew,  in  a  depressed  tone,  "  let  us 
change  the  subject.  There  isn't  anything  that  woman  took 
into  her  head  she  couldn't  make  me  do.  So  the  dragon  let  you 
off  dut)',  did  she?" 

"  As  you  see,  Fred,  else  I  wouldn't  be  here." 

"  Are  you  aware  1  have  been  on  the  look-out  for  you  ever 
since  that  night  at  your  aunt's  gate  ?  I  have  patrolled  your 
street  like  a  sentry  on  guard,  early  and  late.  Do  you  never  go 
out?" 

"  Hardly  ever.  Once  a  week  I  do  the  marketing — give  the 
orders,  that  is.  Sometimes  I  have  my  '  Sunday  out.'  I  express 
a  wish  to  go  to  cluirch  and  am  alluweil  to  gt).  AuiU  Dormer  ia 
a  i)rofessecl  heatht;n  herself — another  good  turn  she  owes  that 
false  and  faithless  papa  of  yours,  my  Fred." 


ti  ^ 


"  Oir,   WHISTLE,  AND   VLL   COME   TO    YE."'        209 

••  What  rhnrch  do  yoii  patronize  Siindiys,  pray?" 

"  Hotn-  Dame  princ;i|)ally,  for  tlic  sake  of  tlic  iimsic." 

••  Snail  you  bo  there  next  Suiulay  ?" 

"  If  next  Sniulav  is  fine,  and  Aunt  PM'.'s  temper  doesn't  turn 
to  j^'all  anti  bittern   is." 

"  When  do  you  i^o— morning  or  evcuiig?" 

♦•  Morning." 

"  I  shall  attend  xVotre  Danie  next  Sunday  morning,"  sayg 
Mr.  Carew,  gravely.  "  Ponding  next  Sunday,  cannot  y<  1  uian- 
age  to  meet  me  s.  niewhere,  Lcuity.  I  have  a  million  things  to 
say  to  you.  I  i)roposed  to  relieve  my  i'lf  of  a  few  to  night,  but 
Mrs.  I'ogarty— bless  her !  has  frustnvtcd  all  fhat.  JJy-the  by, 
one  of  them  was— what  sort  of  a  parting  did  you  and  Sandy 
have  ?     Not  too  affectionate,  I  hope  ?  " 

"Mr.  McKelpin's  highly  respectable  name  is  Dtuiald,  as  I 
think  I  have  informed  you  before.     For  our  partini-,   -that  is  no 
concern  of  yours.     The  last  farewells  of  those  who  love  is  much 
too  sacred  a  subject  to  be  exposed  to  the  profane  levity  of  out 
siders." 

"  Ah  !  "  says  Freddy,  in  a  quenched  tone,  and  the  dei)iessed 
look  returns.  Miss  Hendrick  compassionately  comes  to  the 
rescue. 

"  You  said  there  were  a  million  things  you  h.id  to  say  to  me 
—this  is  only  one.  Proceed  with  the  rest,  and  quickly;  for  in 
the  distance  Mrs.  Fogarty  is  eying  you  as  a  vi  .uire  its  prey, 
and  will  swoop  down  ui)on  you  in  three  minutes.  ' 

"1  want  to  see  you,  Cyrilla— I  want  to  talk  to  vou  seriously 
—seriously,  mind!"  says  Mr.  Carew,  "about  thi^  engagement 
with  McKelpin.  At  what  hour,  daily,  docs  Miss  1  *ormer  take 
her  after-dinner  nap  ?  Old  ladies  always  do  take  after-dinner 
naps,  don't  they  ?" 

"My  ex[  jrience  of  old  ladies  is  extremely  limited,  I  am 
hniipy  to  say.  Miss  Dormer  goes  to  sleep  at  three  o'clock  every 
atternoon  with  the  regularity  of  clockwork " 

"  Then  what  is  to  hinder  your  stealing  out  every  aft  'rnoon  at 
three  o'clock  ?"   cries  I'Veddy,  eagerly. 

" 'i"fl  wakes,"  pursues  Cyrilla,  "as  I  was  aboit  to  say 

when  you  interrupted  me,  on  an  average  every  five  unutes. 
She  looks  about  the  room,  and  if  1  am  not  visible  she  *  ills  for 
nie.  ^  The  instant  I  stole  out  to  meet  you,  that  instant  tae  dear 
old  iady  would  awake." 

"  Still  let  us  try  it,"  goes  on  Freddy,  undaunted,  "  ir  see 
you  I  must.     Look  here,  Beauty— every  afternoon  1  will  go  to 


tj 


2  lo         "  O/l,   WHISTLE,  AND  PLL   COME   TO   YE:* 


\i 


your  house — wind  and  weather  permitting — and  I'll  give  you 
some  signal  to  ajtpiisc  you.  Let  me  see — ah  !  I'll  whistle  a 
tune — '  La  Ci  (fa rem,'  for  instance.  And  you  shall  come  to 
the  window  and  wave  your  handkerchief  if  there  is  a  chance  of 
your  getting  off.      If  to-morrow  is  line " 

"Oil,  Mr.  Carew  !"  exclaims  the  vivacious  tones  of  the  Pork 
gentleman's  widow,  "  we  are  making  up  a  card  table,  and  we 
iust  want  one.  Do  come  and  be  my  partner— _>w/  will  be  for- 
tunate, I  am  sure,  and  1  am  so  unlucky  at  cards.  Miss  Hen- 
drick  will  excuse  you,  I  am  sure." 

Miss  Hendrick  bows  frigidly  and  turns  away.  And  before  he 
quite  realizes  it,  Mr.  Carew  is  cajitured  and  carried  off. 

"  I  am  so  unlucky  at  cards,"  gushes  the  widow,  *•  and  I  do 
want  a  good  i)artner  so  much." 

The  last  thing  that  reaches  Miss  Hendrick's  disgusted  ears  is 
the  imbecility  Fred  is  murmuring  :  "  unlucky  at  cards — lucky 
in  love — the  inexpressible  jileasure  of  being  Mrs.  Fogarty's 
j):utner  even  for  an  hour,  etc.,  etc."  Then  a  brother  officer  of 
Carew's  approaches,  and  asks  her  to  waltz.  She  goes,  and  as 
the  gentleman  knows  what  he  is  about,  enjoys  the  dance  thor- 
oughly. 

She  sees  no  more  of  Mr.  Carew  that  evening,  but  she  does 
not  allow  it  to  spoil  her  pleasure.  She  frowns  a  little,  to  observe 
how  closely  Mrs.  Fogarty  keeps  hiui  pinned  to  her  side  ;  but 
all  the  same,  she  thoroughly  enjoys  this  small  reception  of  Mrs. 
Delamere's.  The  last  thirig  she  notices  as  she  flits  away  to  put 
on  her  things  and  go  home,  is  Fred  Carew  meandering  languidly 
through  a  square  dance  with  his  widow. 

Next  day  Fred  is  faithfully  at  his  post,  and  the  first  bar  of 
*'Z<?  Ci  Darem  la  Afano"  reaches  Cyrilla's  ears  at  a  quarter 
past  three.  Miss  Dormer  is  asleep,  and  she  goes  silently 
out  and  disappears  with  her  lover  around  an  angle  of  the 
house. 

This  meeting  is  but  the  beginning  of  many.  At  each  inter- 
view Mr.  Carew  uses  all  his  eloquence,  enqjloys  every  argument 
he  can  bring  to  bear  to  induce  Cyrilla  to  end  the  fiirce  she  is 
playing,  to  throw  over  the  Scotchman  and  engage  herself  to  him. 
Cyrilla  listens,  and  laughs  in  his  face. 

"  And  starve  willi  you  in  a  garret,  like  a  pair  of  modern  Babes 
in  the  Wood  ?  No,  thank  you,  Freddy — I  like  you  very  well, 
but  1  don't  wish  to  commit  suicide  for  your  sake.  It's  pleasant 
to  meet  you  in  this  way — forbidden  fruit  is  always  sweetest,  and 
it  is  good  to  see  a  face  1  knew  in  the  old  blissful,  beggarly  vaga- 


A 


**0H,   WHISTLE,  AND  FLL    COME    TO    VE."         2H 


h  inter- 
rguuicnt 
i  she  is 
"  to  him. 


bond  days  ;  but  marry  you — poor  as  you  are  now  !      No  !  not 
while  I  keep  my  senses." 

About  the  middle  of  March,  Mrs.  Fogarty  gave  a  ball  at  the 
Fogarty  mansion  in  Shelbourne  Street,  which,  for  barbaric  s])len- 
dor  and  costliness,  was  long  the  talk  of  the  town.  Half  IVlon- 
treal  seemed  to  be  invited — among  them  the  rich  Miss  Dormer's 
heiress  and  niece — the  rich  Donald  McKeljiin's  affianced  wife. 

Miss  Dormer's  niece  obtained  permission  to  go.  To  des])ise 
your  hostess  and  yet  enjoy  her  parties  is  no  uncommon  i)haseof 
society.  Miss  Hendrick  put  on  the  "  strawberry-ice  "  silk,  pre- 
sented her  as  bridemaid's  dress  by  Sydney  Owenson — a  rich 
and  beautiful  garment,  stylishly  made  and  trimmed.  She  wore 
a  cluster  of  pink  roses  (sent  by  Freddy)  in  her  glossy  black 
braids,  and  a  set  of  pearls  loaned  her  by  Aunt  Phil  for  this 
occasion  only.  Her  bouquet  (sent  also  by  Freddy)  was  of 
pink  and  white  roses.  And  as  she  came  into  Mrs.  Fogarty's 
njoms,  her  dark  head  held  high,  her  manner  so  eminently  dis- 
tinguished and  self-possessed,  she  looked  the  handsomest  and 
most  thoroughbred  woman  in  the  rooms. 

Mr.  Carew  was  there,  and  on  this  night  Mrs.  Fogarty's  atten- 
tions to  him  were  painfully  marked.  To  tell  the  taith,  Mrs. 
Fogarty  had  made  up  her  mind  to  marry  him.  She  had 
married  the  pork  man  for  money ;  she  would  marry  Mr.  Carew 
for  love !  Also  for  his  handsome  face,  his  elegant  manners, 
his  scarlet  coat,  and  his  connection  with  die  British  peerage. 
His  grand-uncle  was  an  earl ;  more  than  one  life,  as  good  as  his 
own,  stood  between  him  and  the  succession  ;  but  these  lives 
might  be  removed,  and  she  might  write  her  name  Countess  of 
Dunmith  !  She  was  still  young — she  owned  to  four-and-twenty, 
and  the  record  of  the  family  Bible  no  one  knew  but  herself. 
She  was  very  rich,  and  half-a-dozen  men  this  very  winter  had 
asked  her  to  marry  them.  Mr.  Carew  was  poor  ;  his  admiration 
of  her  was  (juite  patent  to — herself;  before  May  he  must  propose. 
She  would  accept  him,  marry  him,  and  take  him  for  a  honey- 
moon tour  around  the  world,  calling,  I'u  route^  at  Dunraith  Park  ! 

With  all  these  good  resolutions  in  her  mind,  she  steadfiistly 
held  Fred  at  her  side  the  whole  night  long.  Men  laughed  and 
congratulated  him  ;  the  havoc  he  had  made  in  the  fair  Fogarty's 
affections  she  took  no  pains  to  conceal ;  the  women,  as  a  rule, 
cxi>resse(l  themselves  diHgust(>d.  For  Miss  Hendrick,  with  her 
handsome  face,  betokening  only  trancpiil  enjoyment,  she  danced 
the  long  night  through,  without  exchanging  a  dozen  words  with 
him. 


212 


"  on,   WHISTLE,  AND  I'LL    COME    TO    YE." 


I^^Ih  j 

( 

K^HH^H^B 

\ 

^^^^^^H 

^^H 

i 
1 

H^^^B 

- 

Once,  indeed  lie  broke  his  fetters,  and  rushed  to  her  side,  and 


implored  her  to  dance  with  him.;  but  Miss  Hendrick,  in  a 


voice 


thoroughly  iced,  told  hiiii  she  was  engaged  for  every  dance  she 
meant  to  dance  until  she  left,  and  turned  her  white  shoulder 
pointedly  upon  him,  and  resumed  her  animated  flirtation  with 
Major  Riddell. 
_  Hut  once  at  home  a  few  hours  later,  she  tore  off  her  jiink 
silk,  her  pearls  and  roses,  and  tiling  them,  a  lustrous  heap,  in  a 
fine  fury,  across  the  room.  She  was  by  nature  intensely  jealous  ; 
Mrs.  Fogarty's  quiet  monoi)oly  of  Fred  Carew  all  night  had  half- 
niaddened  her.  She  did  not  mean  to  marry  him  herself;  but  to 
give  him  up  to  that  woman— that  odious,  brainless,  giggling 
woman  !  No  !  She  would  ruin  her  every  prospect  in  life,  re- 
nounce Mr.  McKeli)in  and  her  aunt's  fortune,  sooner  !  Then 
an  outbreak  of  vindictive  tears,  and  the  belle  of  Mrs.  Fogarty's 
ball  cried  herself  in  a  jealous  rage  to  sleep. 

Mrs.  Delaiiicre,  still  Miss  Dormer's  only  visitor,  came  quite 
often,  and  helped  on  the  ending  of  the  drama. 

"Really,  Cyrilla,  my  love," 'she  said,  laughingly,  more  than 
once,  "  I  think  we  will  have  fello\v-i)assengers  by  The  Austrian,  in 
Ajml.  I  am  as  sure  as  that  I  stand  here  Nelly  Fogarty  will  be 
our  traveling-comi)anion," 

"Alone?'"  Miss  Hendrick  asks. 

"Alone?"  laughs  Mrs.  Delamere.  "  Simple  child  !  have  you 
no  eyes?  She  means  to  marry  Fred  Carew,  and  take  him  with 
her.  Poor  Freddy— it  is  a  case  of  'greatness  thrust,'  and  so  on. 
Pie  doesn't  like  it,  but  when  the  proper  time  comes  he  will  face 
his  doom  like  a  man  and  a  soldier." 

About  this  time  too,  the  short  letters,  the  signal  whisde  uncher 
the  windows,  were  given  up.  Mr.  Carew  was  evidently  getting 
tired  of  wooing  another  man's  future  wife.  Rumors  on  all  sides 
reached  the  girl's  ears  of  his  jierpetual  presence  at  the  [-lotel 
Fogarty.  The  blooming  widow  took  him  shopping  in  her  cunnin<^ 
little  blue  velvet  sleigh,  gave  dinner  i)arties,  none  of  which  he  ever 
missed,  went  to  church  with  him  Sundays,  and  let  him  carry 
her  ruby  velvet  and  gold  prayer-book  into  the  pew.  Widows 
have  been  dangerous  from  time  immemorial — what  was  a  poor 
little  fellow  like  Fred  Carew,  totally  unprotected,  to  do  when 
laid  siege  to  like  this  ?  "  Samivel,  bevare  of  the  vidders,"  said 
Mr.  Weller,  and  Mr.  Weller  understood  human  nature. 

Tht!   first  week  of  April   Mrs.  Delamere  gave  a  farewell  re- 
union ;  Miss  Hendrick  was  bidden  and  had  obtained  leave  to  go. 
"  liut  mind,"  said  Miss  Dormer,  grimly,  "it  is  the  last  time 


K 


:  side,  and 
in  a  voice 
lance  she 
:  slunilder 
ition  with 

her  pink 
leap,  in  a 
^jcalons  ; 
;  had  half- 
If;  bnt  to 

1  hfe.  re- 
■ !  Then 
Fogarty's 

me  quite 

ore  than 
strian,  in 
ly  will  be 


have  you 
him  wilh 
nd  5;o  oii. 
:  will  face 

tie  undtr 
y  getting 

all  sides 
he  Hotel 
■  cunning 
11  he  ever 
im  carry 

Wid(_)\vs 
s  a  poor 
;lo  when 
;rs,"  said 

swell  ra- 
ve to  go, 
ist  time 


"0/7,  WHISTLE,  AND  I'LL   COxME  TO    YE."         213 

This  makes  Ihree  in  two  months.     You  go  to  no  more  fandan- 
goes. Niece  Cyrilla." 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  want  to,"  responded  Cyrilla,  wretchedly  ; 
"they  don't  afford  me  so  much  j^leasure.  1  wish  Mr.  McKel- 
pin  was  back,  and  my  wedding  comfortably  over." 

Once  again,  as  a  matter  of  course,  Mr.  Carew  and  Mrs. 
Ibgarty  were  {present,  and  once  again,  also,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  in  close  juxtaposition.  But  presently  Mr.  Carew's 
order  of  release  came,  and  armed  with  a  white  satin  fan  he 
sauntered  over  and  took  a  seat  beside  her. 

"  Well,  Beauty,"  he  begins,  in  his  pleasant,  lazy  voice,  "  I 
have  been  waiting  to  come  over  for  the  last  half  hour  and  tell 
you  how  uncommonly  well  you  are  looking  tonight." 

"  And  your  kee])er,  Mrs.  Fogarty,  wouldn't  let  you,  I  sup- 
pose," says  JVIiss  Hendrick,  scornfully.  She's  looking  uncom- 
monly well,  too,  isn't  she?     Have  you  told  her  so  ?" 

"  There  is  no  need.  Beauty — to  look  uncommonly  well  is 
Mrs.  Fogarty's  normal  state." 

"Yes,"  says  Miss  Hendrick,  her  handsome  short  upi)er  lip 
curling,  *'  there's  nothing  common  about  her,  I  admit,  not  even 
conunon  sense  !  Might  one  inquire  whose  very  bridal-like  fan 
that  is  you  wield  so  gracefully,  Mr.  Carew?" 

"  This  ?  Nelly's,  of  course.  The  rooms  are  warm,  and  she 
kindly  lent  it  tome.     I  must  go  back  and  return  it,  by-the-by." 

It  is  the  last  straw,  we  are  told,  that  breaks  the  camel's  back. 
Cyrilla  Hendrick's  eyes  Hashed  and  her  lips  quivered. 

"  Nelly  !     It  has  come  to  that,  then  ! " 

Mr.  Carew  raises  his  eyebrows. 

"  It  is  not  imf)roper,  is  it  ?  We  are  excellent  friends,  and 
she  gives  me  the  privilege.  It's  a  pretty  name  and  easy  to 
say.  I  don't  cotton  to  Fogarty,  strange  to  relate — no  more 
does  she." 

"  Let  us  hope  she  will  like  her  new  name  better.  Has  she 
proposed  to  you  yet,  Mr.  Carew  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Cyrilla,  did  I  ever  ask  these  embarrassing  ques- 
tions about  McKeli)in  ?  Apropos^  he  is  coming  back  in  a  few 
weeks,  Nelly  tells  me,  and  the  wedding  is  to  come  off — when, 
Beauty  ?  " 

'i'his  is  too  much.  She  turns  upon  him,  passionate  tears 
in  her  black  eyes,  passionate  anger  in  her  voice,  and  exclaims  : 

"  Fred  Carew,  how  is  this  to  end  ?  " 


m\ 


214 


FAIHY  GOLD, 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


FAIRY   GOLD. 


ii 


i 


l»       'I' 

1 1     A 


E  raises  liis  eyebrows  and  looks  at  lier,  placid  surprise 
only  in  his  face. 

"  How  is  this  to  end?"  she  repeats,  in  that  passion- 
ately angry  whis|)er. 
"The  very  ciuestion  I  put  to  you,  if  you  remember,  that  night 
under  your  aunt's  chestnuts,  I  forget  what  you  answered.  "l5y 
the  way  things  are  going  on  at  present,  1  think  it  will  end  in 
your  leading  to  the  altar  the  manly  McKelpin  and  I  the  lovely 
Eogarty." 

"  Freddy,  do  you  mean  to  marry  that  odious  woman  ?" 
"  Cyrilla,  do  you  mean  to  marry  that  odious  man?" 
"  'i'iiere  is  no  comparison,"  she  vehemently  cries.      "  I  cannot 
help  selling  iii}'self— you    can.      If  she  were    nice,  and  not  a 

widow,  and  not  vulgar,  and  not " 

Miss  Hendrick  is  absolutely  growing  hysterical,  and  Mr.  Ca- 
rew  looks  about  him  in  alarm. 

''My  dear  child,  don't  let  us  talk  here,"  he  says,  hurriedly. 
"The  Eogarty,  confound  her,  is  watching  us  with  the  eyes  of 
Argus.  Come  into  the  next  room  ;  there  is  hardly  any  one 
there."  ^       ^ 

He  leads  her  away — for  once  in  his  life  with  Cyrilla,  he  is 
master  of  the  situation,  and  for  once  in  his  life  means  to  remaiix 
so. 

The  room  adjoining  is  the  back  drawing-room,  where  the 
piano  stands,  forsaken  now.  One  or  two  card-tables,  also  for- 
saken, stand  in  one  or  two  recesses. 

They  are  more  fortunate  than  even  Fred  has  hoped.  The 
back  drawing-room  is  deserted. 

He  takes  his  stand  before  his  fair  friend,  leans  his  elbow  in  an 
easy  posuion  upon  the  ])iano,  and  iM-epares  to  have  it  out 

"Now,  then,  JJeauty,"  he  begins,  in  atone  Fred  Carew'does 
not  otten  use,  "let  us  understand  one  another  once  and  for 
all.  This  sort  of  fooling  has  gone  on  between  ynu  onr]  mo  lon-^ 
enough— It  shall  end  to-mght.  J/oia  is  it  to  end  ?  In  your  sellinS 
yourself  to  McKelpin  and  I  to  the  Widow  l-ogarty?  It  is  for 
you  to  decide." 


FAIRY  GOLD. 


215 


1 


"Fred,  tell  me,  could  yon,  would  yon,  under  any  circum- 
stances,  marry  that  underbred,  over-dressed,  loud-voiced  wo- 
man ?  " 

"  She's  a  very  pretty  woman,  or  was  fifteen  years  ago,"  responds 
Mr,  Carcw,  "and  worth  a  hundred  thousand  dollars.  Her 
taste  in  dress  and  laughter,  I  could  tone  down.  Now,  McKel- 
pin  at  no  period  of  liis  career  could  have  laid  claim  to  pretti- 
ness,  and  1  don't  think  he  is  worth  a  farthing  more.  Of  course, 
there  is  also  your  aunt's  fortune  in  the  scale.  Still  money  is 
not  everything  in  this  world  ;  almost  everything,  I  admit,  hut 
not  quite.  If  you  set  me  the  example,  'Rilla,  you  must  not  be 
suri)rised  at  anything  I  may  do." 

"  You  have  not  answered  my  question,"  she  angrily  j;ays. 
"Do  you  mean  to  marry  Mrs.  P'ogarty?" 

"  What  difference  can  it  make  t">  you  when  you  are  Mrs. 
McKelpin  whether  1  marry  her  or  not  ?  " 

What,  indeed !  And  yet  Cyrilla  feels  that  it  does.  She 
could  marry  her  Scotchman  and  support  life  apart  from  Fred,  if 
she  could  only  feel  sure  Fred  would  live  and  die  single  for  her 
sake.  But  to  give  him  \\\)  to  another  woman  ;  that  woman  a 
widow,  and  such  a  widow — no,  that  way  madness  lay. 

'"Rilla,"  he  says,  and  he  leans  forward  and  takes  both  her 
hands  in  his,  "  you  know  you  can  never  marry  any  man  in  the 
world  but  me — 1  who  was  in  love  with  you  in  pinafores  !  Make 
an  end  of  this  nonsense,  and  marry  me  at  once.  We  won't 
starve  ;  there's  a  special  providence  that  watches  over " 

"  Fools  !  "  interrupts  Miss  Hendrick,  bitterl3^  "  Yes,  I  know." 

"  Lovers,  I  was  about  to  say,"  i)ursues  Fred,  in  his  pleasant 
way.  "We'll  be  happy — you  know  that,  JJeauty.  We  suit 
each  other  as  no  two  ever  did  before.  Say  you'll  marry  me  on 
the  (piiet  next  week,  and  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  I'll  cut 
Nelly  dead  from  thenceforth  forever." 

She  turns  upon  him,  a  blaze  of  fury  in  her  black  eyes 

"  Nelly  !  "  she  cries.     "  If  you  ever  call  her  Nelly  again ^" 

"Very  well,  I  won't,"  responds  Mr.  Carew,  soothingly  ;  "I'll 
call  her  nothing  at  all ;  oh,  no,  we  never  mention  her,  from  the 
hour  you  promise.     If  you  refuse "  he  darkly  pauses. 

"W^cll?"  petulantly,  but  not  meeting  the  pleading  eyes,  "if 
I  refuse?" 

"  I  shall  ask  Mrs.  Fogarty  to-morrow  morning,  I  swear  it^ 
'Rilla ;  antl  tiie  wedding  shall  come  off  a  week  beiore  yours." 

"  Fred  !  "  with  a  gasj),  "you — you  don't  mean  that  ?" 

*'  I  never  meant  anything  so  much  in  my  life,  Beauty." 


I 


2l6 


FAIRY  GOLD. 


"But  to  marry  you  in  secret— to  ruin  all  my  prospects  for 
life— that  I  have  worked  so  hard  for,  too  !  Oh,  I  cannot!"  she 
cries,  distractedly. 

"Tiiere  will  be  no  ruin  in  the  case.  At  present  I  have  my 
pay,  and  that  will  suflice  for  us  in  a  quiet  way " 

"Ah,  very  quiet  !  "  interpolates  Miss  Hendrick,  with  scorn. 

'■•In  acpuet  way,"  proceeds  Fred.  "Then  1  shall  write  to 
my  Uncle  Dunraith,  he's  an  uncommonly  game  old  bird  in  money 
matters;  and  if  Miss  Dormer  finds  us  out  before  she  dies,  why 
she  11  come  around.  Its  a  rule  of  nature,  that  parents  and  guard- 
ians always  do  come  round.  But  my  own  conviction  is,  that 
Aunt  Dormer  will  die  comfortably  before  finding  us  out,  and 
leave  you  her  money,  aivl  virtue  will  be  its  own  reward  in 
the  end." 

She  stands  before  him,  a  struggle  going  on,  he  can  see,  her 
chest  heaving.  His  elocpience  is  not  the  cause,  she  is  not  list- 
ening to  a  word  of  it  all ;  she  is  simply  thinking,  "  If  I  do  not 
marry  him  Mrs.  Fogarty  will." 

"Mrs.  Delamere  will  be  our  aider  and  abettor,"  goes  on  the 
voice  of  the  tempter,  "  so  will  the  colonel.     The  chaplain  of  the 

regiment  will  marry  us,  and  after  that Ali  !  well,  Ttilla,  love, 

after  that  there  will  be  no  more  Nellys  nor  Donalds  to  trouble 
our  i)eace.  We  will  belong  to  each'  other— as  we  do,  for  the 
matter  of  that,  now— to  the  end  of  our  lives.  Beauty,  say 
yes ! "  J^     } 

But  she  cannot— not  even  with  Fred's  flushed,  handsome 
pleading  f^ice  so  close  to  lu.'r  own. 

"  I  cannot !  "  she  cries  out  in  desperation  ;  "at  least  not  now. 
Give  me  until  to-morrow,  and  I  will  decide." 

"  You  are  sure— to-morrow  ?  "  he  asks. 

"  I  am  sure— to-morrow.  Come  at  the  usual  hour,  rrive  the 
usual  signal,  and  if  it  be  possible  I  will  steal  out  and  meet 
you.  Jiut  muid,  don't  hope  too  much— the  answer  may  not  be 
yes." 

He  smiles. 

"  Would  you  really  throw  me  into  the  arms  of  Nelly  Fogarty  ?  " 
he  asks,  and  as  he  utters  the  name  a  sound  startles  them.  Both 
look  up,  and  see  Mrs.  Fogarty's  white,  angry  face  looking  at 
them  through  the  half  closed  folding  doors. 

He  drops  her  hands  and  they  start  apart. 

"  The  devil  !  "  exclaims  Fred  Carew. 

The  next  moment  he  is  alone— Cyrilla  has  walked  straight  over 
to  the  folding  doors,  but  Mrs.  Fogarty  has  fled.     She  is^alkin? 


w  '^.  , 


FA/HV  GOLD. 


atj 


prospects  for 
■afiuo//"  she 


t  I  have 


my 


with  scorn, 
lall  write  to 
ird  in  money 
he  (h"es,  why 
:s  and  gnard- 
:tion  is,  that 
us  out,  and 
n   leward  in 

can  see,  her 
i  is  not  list- 
[f  I   do  not 

goes  on  tlic 
aplain  of  the 
'lliUa,  love, 
5  to  trouble 
do,  for  the 
Beauty,  say 

,  handsome 

ist  not  now. 


ur,  give  the 
:  and  meet 
may  not  be 


Fogarty  ?  " 

:hein.    Both 

looking  at 


traight  over 
e  is  talking' 


to  Colonel  Delamere  when  Miss  Hendrick  passes  through  the 
other  room,  and  keeps  her  back  turned  toward  her. 

Can  she  have  heard  ?  the  girl  wonders.  No,  that  is  impossi- 
ble. She  has  not  heard,  but  she  has  seen  (piite  enough  to  know 
that  Fred  Carew  will  never  be  her  husband. 

For  Fred  himself,  he  lingers  a  moment,  that  well-satisfied  smile 
still  on  his  lips. 

"  The  woman  who  hesitates  is  lost,"  he  murmurs.  "  I  think 
I  may  look  out  for  a  special  license  the  day  after  to-mor- 
row." 

******* 

The  fifteenth  of  April  was  the  day  appointed  for  the  depar- 
ture of  the  Delameres  from  Canada.  Very  early  on  the  morning 
of  the  fourteenth  a  little  party  assembled  in  Mrs.  Delamere's 
drawing-room,  on  malrimonia!  business  intent — the  chaplain  of 

tlie th,  Frederic  Carew,  CyriUa  Hendrick,   the  Colonel  and 

his  wife.  With  locked  doors  and  closed  blinds,  a  ceremony  was 
performed  that  required  but  a  very  short  lime.  At  its  close  the 
chai)lain  and  Mr.  Carew  stayed  to  breakfast,  and  Cyrilla  return- 
ed to  Miss  Dormer's  house  on  foot — Fred  Carew's  wife. 

It  would  have  been  a  curious  and  rather  cynical  study  to  have 
analyzed  the  different  feelings  actuating  the  ditTerent  peo[)le  in 
the  little  bridal  group.  Fat  Mrs.  Delamere,  with  her  head  a 
little  on  one  side,  and  a  pensive  simper  on  her  fair  and  forty  face, 
felt  she  was  living  a  page  out  of  one  of  her  fivorite  romances. 
She  had  plaintive,  sentimental  theories  about  "  two  souls  witli 
bat  a  single  thought,  two  hearts,"  etc.  The  Colonel,  with  a  jolly 
smile  on  his  jovial  face,  gives  away  the  bride,  feeling  that  she 
is  an  uncommonly  pretty  girl,  that  he  would  not  mind  being  in 
Carew's  place  himself,  and  tiiat  it  is  a  capital  joke  to  help  out- 
wit the  two  skinilints,  McKclpin  and  Thillis  Dormer.  The 
chaplain  is  a  dark  and  saturnine  gentleman,  of  a  bilious  habit, 
about  as  social  and  conversable  as  an  oyster,  who  keeps  secrets 
so  well  that  he  mostly  forgets  tliem  himself.  Cyrilla's  principal 
emotion  as  FVed  slips  the  wedding  ring  on  her  fmger  is,  that  he 
can  never,  7ie7't'r  iiirt  with  that  detestable  Nelly  Fogarty  again. 
F'or  the  bridegroom,  his  are  the  best  and  honestest,  and  sim[)lest 
feelings  of  all.  True  love  shines  in  his  blue  eyes  as  they  look 
in  his  bride's  face,  and  he  is  recording  a  vow  in  his  mmost  heart 
tlnit  Cyrilla  shall  never  reiient  this  step  she  ha^;  taken  for  h.is 
sake. 

*  *  «•  *  *  *  *  * 

"Aunt  Dormer,"   says  Cyriihi,  coming  into  her  aunt's  room 

JO 


i8 


FAIRY  GOLD. 


I 


iMi 


fl; 


with  an  open  letter  in  her  liajid,  "here  is  a  letter  from  Sidney 
Owenson.  See  what  slie  inch)ses— a  throngh  ticket  for  next 
week  to  take  uie  to  ^^w  York.  She  and  her  mother  sail  for 
iMU-opc  on  the  tenth  of  May,  and  she  begs  I  will  spend  a  week 
with  lier  before  she  sails.  VVe  may  never  meet  again,  she  says, 
and  we  have  been  such  good  friends,  aunt.      Afay'l  go  ?" 

It  is  the  afternoon  of  the  last  day  of  April  ;  but  Miss  Dormer, 
ui  her  stuffy  room,  sits  huddled  and  shivering  over  a  glowing 
coal  fire.  She  lifts  uj)  her  fretful,  sour  old  face,  all  i)inchcd  and 
drawn,  with  its  customary  growl. 

"Always  gadding,  gadding  !  never  done  !  I  thought  when 
that  Delamere  woman  wvnt,  a  fortnight  ago,  there  would  bean 
end  of  it,  and  here  you  want  to  begin  again." 

"  Have  I  been  anywhere  since  Mrs.  I)elamere  did  go,  aunt?" 
"  And  now  you  want  to  be  off  to  New  York,  the'  wickedest 
city  m  the  world,  and  gad  about  there.     What  do  you  suppose 
Mr.  McKelpin  will  say  when  he  pefurns  in  June  ?  " 

There  was  a  dangerous  answ  ■'•  on  tiie  lip  of  Cyrilla's  tongue, 
a  dangerous  Hash  in  her  eye  at  the  (|uo.  Mon,  but  there  was'  too 
muclwU  stake  for  her  to  l.'t  temi)er  get  tiie  better  of  her  now. 

"  I'm  not  Mrs.  McKelimi  yet,  Aunt  Phil.  1  [)elon-  to  you, 
not  lo  him.     And  it  is  the  last,  the  very  last  favor  I  will  ask. 

It  Sydney  had  not  sent  the  ticket  too " 

"1  suppose  she  thought  I  was  too  poor  to  pay  for  you," 
siuu-led  Miss  Dormer.  <'\Vell,  I  am  too  poor.  I  have  no 
money  to  throw  awny,  and  never  shall.  To  leave  me,  too,  in 
my  present  wretched  state,  it  is  like  your  gratitude,  after  all  I 
have  done  for  you.  Niece  C}rilla  !  " 

"Thenl  am  to  write  to  Afiss  Owenson,  return  her  ticket, 
and  tell  her  you  will  not  let  me  go  ?  " 

"  And  have  her  set  me  down  as  a  monster,  a  tyrant,  and  your 
self  a  victim  !     You  would  like  that,  would  you  not  ?     No',  vou 

shall  go  to  New  York,  and  you  shall  see  Dr.  S for  m<,','ex- 

plam  my  case  to  him,  and  bring  me  back  his  medicines!  I 
sui.pose  your  rich  friend  will  givJ  3-011  a  return  ticket,  since  she 
seems  to  have  more  money  than  she  knows  what  to  do  with." 

"1  am  (piite  sure  she  will,  aunt  As  vou  sav,  it  will  be  an 
excellent  opportunity  to   lay  your  case  L'efore  the   famous  \)x. 

S •    ,1  ^^'^ve  no  doubt  his  prescriptions  will  add  twenty  yeais 

to  youi  life.  ].et  me  see.  To-morrow  is  the  fust  of  May'.  This 
ticket  1:,  \(i):  the  fourth.  Of  course  1  can  easily  be  ready  to  m 
on  the  fourth."  '  ^        ^ 

So  it  was  arranged.     That  there  was  any  duijlicity  about  fjie 


FA/KV  GOLD. 


219 


letter  or  the  ticket,  that  Fred  Carew  had  obtained  a  fortnight's 
li-ave— sick  leave  !— how  was  Miss  Dormer  in  her  slithng  prison 

to  know  ?  .... 

Cyrilla  made  her  preparations— not  many— with  so  radiant  a 
face  that  old  jcKinna  lifted  her  deaf  head  from  the  work,  and  de- 
clared it  dill  her  old  eyes  good  only  to  look  at  her.  There  was 
new  light,  new  life  in  her  dark  lace  that  turned  the  grave  beauty 
to  absolute  loveliness.  She  sang  to  herself  as  she  moved 
through  the  gruesome  rooms,  (juite  a  new  sound  in  Miss  I)or- 
nier's  dreary  home.  "  Let  us  crown  ourselves  with  roses  before 
they  fade,"  says  a  Sybaritish  old  French  proverb ;  her  roses  had 
bloomed,  and  she  would  gatiier  them  at  their  brightest.  She 
was  happy  to-day.  She  would  not  look  forward  to  to-morrow  ; 
her  day  would  last  until  the  tenth  of  the  month.  If  the  night 
and  the  darkness  came  after,  so  nnich  the  more  need  to  enjoy 
the  sunshine  of  the  present. 

Early  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth,  Cyrilla  started  on  her 
journey  for  New  York.  It  was  a  veritable  May  day,  even  in 
Canada,  of  soft  winds  and  melting  sunlight.  She  lay  back  m  her 
seat,  and  looked  with  radiantly  dark  eyes  at  the  ilymg  prospect. 
How  good  a  holiday  was  !  She  had  been  on  the  treadmill  so 
long— .y//r//  a  treadmill!  that  liberty  alone  seemed  a  foretaste  of 
heaven.  The  girl  was  a  gypsy  by  nature.  In  the  Cedar  wood 
palaces  of  her  soul's  desire  she  would  have  had  backward  yearn- 
ings for  the  canvas  tents  and  fetterless  freedom  ot  the  nomad 
tribes.  She  was  free  now— one,  two,  three— nine  whole  days 
she  was  to  be  happy.  Nine  whole  days  only.  Ah,  well  !  people 
have  gone  through  life  without  even  nine  hours  of  perfect  bliss. 
The  day  >vore  on--noon— afternoon — evening— mgiit.  She 
did  not  feel  even  a  touch  of  weariness,  her  vitality  was  perfect. 
Other  people  around  her  slei)t ;  her  eyes  were  like  dusk  stars. 
Nine  o'clock,  ten  o'clock,  eleven  o'clock,  and  ''  Bostoir  shouts 
the  conductor,  putting  in  his  head.  Her  journey  for  the  pres- 
ent  is  at  an  end. 

There  were  not  many  people  nor  many  hacks  at  the  depot  at 
that  hour,  but  one  of  the  few  i)ersons  in  wailing  made  his  way 
instantly  in.  While  Cyrilla  was  gathering  her  belongmgs  to- 
gether, some  one  came  hastily  to  her  side,  stooped  down  and 
kissed  her. 
"My  wife!" 

Her  answer  is  a  smile  that  repays  Fred  Carew  for  tu-esome 
hours  of  waiting.  He  gathers  up  shawl,  bag  and  book,  draws 
her  hand  through  his  arm,  and  leads  her  away  tc  a  hack. 


If 


zzo 


FAIRY  GOLD. 


lit 


"And  this  is  lli,IlMl)()f  tln;Univi.r«»"=„..i-     ii     ,      .. 
"  ii  iwts  an  i;„t;:i.h  iool<.    W.n    Si,  7' ""•■'•  '"'«'""«• 
ploreit,  VwAAy"  """'"'•>y  iMclo-iimrrow  ami  ex- 

,„„",^-:;'f,:"'->''  '-■>""-     Al'  I  if  Aunt  l)or„,er  couUl  only  s.c 

snd;''l„•,v;or's.''7ln^^h;'!■,,''*'■'''  """"!■'-■•  ''-^'- "« "f 

nicco  has  s..,;,.,l     n  ,  i^,!  t  ^X^'fx  '''^''"^'^  ■  '1'^"   "- 
liin  lo  Now  V„rk  ii  h.T    ,  '  arch-enomy— that  Ihu 

in.L,i  u,  ,onvi;,c:  Ar,,'';;:;;?™;'';;'  i;;r"  ""•"''  "^' ""«-" 

eve,,;:;:;  K;'L'''N:vrY:,',?'  '",',"'^";"  >'"/^'«rcc.ably-,ake  .he 
Kn,|.irc  Cily.    'n,ey  *  ;e '.o'"' "  '^••'  '"'  ,""',  """""'«  i"  H.o 

.Lens.-. ;.".  for  .hc?;;fi;:u!;"iiiK:L!'"'^'''  '^••■^''f^'^''  -^ 
says  Af^"l:!;^;K;=s^  '^i';:;?;':,!''  ^^^  -^^  '-•  "^y.- 

is  o.h.,„s  e„.n,«h  eo  „r„i,',i™,^,  ';o';.^,rsr,rA  ,^;;:*-;S:.,. " 

cvcrvihiivr"  '^""b  "iihuaiui,   "u.s   you   do 

i;-:ks,   the  people,   the    theat^-U Jmi     f    O  ^f  T"  '^? 
fl^-h-ht   the  future  nii-ht  briiur   hntlJ.,         ^'-         "'"^   ^'^>'^  '^^' 
The  bh)o,n  u-ould  be^^,sCuff     f  !    "''  T'?  "-^'  ''^''^  ''^^'•^^•• 
and  zest  -one  slu^  coul     n  •  ''''•'''^'''  ^'^""  ^'"^^  ^eshness 

Kelpin  came  honie-sheco  Id  im/t'i'i '"''""  /^'^^''^'  ^^'^ 
fury  gold,  after  all,  that  ould  r  to  K  7  f ''  S"'^'  /"^^^'^t  be 
but  oh  !  how  brightly  it   sho  e        V'ha     .  T  "!  '^"''  ^^'^^ 

tiling  life  could  be  nv,J,.  w    /  f   ^  ^'°"''  ^^"^^   satisfvin^r 

othf  and-i;l;!,';:-u:;;;foft;;™  ir-i"^  >"»  w^r.  f„„ci  or  each 

"  Vm,  w,U  „.au  fo,  n,o  in  Afa,li,,„  S,,,.,,..  I.>o,I.ly,"  had  said 


I 


FAIRY  GOLD. 


211 


sec 


Syil  by  I,      ng 
^',  lived  but  to 


!< redely  s  vvifc.     ««  It  will  never  do  to  shock  Mu 
iier  the  horrid  truth,  so  you  must  not  he  sci-i   " 
Mr.  Carcw,  in  the  present  stage  of  his  exiv. 
obey. 

nuJii^hl'tc?;!"-  "'^  ''^'  ''"^  "^"^  '"'^'^^''^'^  ^^  ^"  ^^""y  >--ii 

"  Was  Miss  Owenson  at  home  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Miss  Owcnson  was  at  hcjme,"  made  answer  the  ebonv 
}(>ui,g  man  throwing  open  a  d(,or  and  ushering  the  visit<,r  into 
he'say  ? "'"     '''"        '^''""  reception  room.     "  VVIiat  name  shall 

okl'tViei!d.'"°^  '"""^  '"^  '""■'''"  '''"   '"^'^^  ^"^^^^-'-^ '   "  t'--"  '^-'•-  ^^" 

"T'l^-'^'-'    Macgregors    must  be  very  rich  people,"  thoti-ht 
Cynlla,  runnmg  her  eyes  critically  over   the  cos  ly  furn.shm 
anc  lornan.ents  of  the  room  ;  "people  of  refmement  anc     I  o^ 
plSXLS"  ^^  "^^"-     ^'^ '«>''->"«  lines  seen,  to  ndl  in 

H M       V    r     ,       ,    '  It  ^y<'"ey-rose  cheeked,  laughing  Sy.jney 

t^^^  "  '''''''  ""'^'^^  ^-^  '^'^-  -^'^  ^- -% 
"  Sydney  !  " 
"Cynlla!" 

frie,l/^l?  ""7  °^  ""'?  '^''^'°'^''  ^'^^'  ^'^^'^^'^'-^>'  O^venson  clasps  the 
.. ''  L'lL"  '"^'''  '"  l^^''  ^'■•"^'  ^^'^'J  ki««es  her  in  a  rapture  again 


am 


agam. 


Aydarhng!  what  a  surprise!"  she  exclaims.  "I  never 
1  ught  of  seemg  you.  Johnson  said  an  old  friend,  and  de- 
cubed  3  ou  n.  glowmg  terms,  but  still   J  never  though     of  you 

Dear  old  Cy  !  how  good  of  you  to  co.ne  before  1  left  !     When 

did  you  come  ?— to-day  ?  " 

rl,iM^'l~"''V''''''^"  ^^>""''^  ^"'^^^'■^'  ^^''th  a  smile.     "  Sidney, 
clnid,  how  thm  and  pale  you  have  grown.     Have  you  h^n 

''No,  not  ill  exactly,  and  yet  not  well.  I  suppose  J  got  too 
geatashock-u  was  all  so  dreadful,  and  I  was  so  littfc  u  ed 
to  tiouble.  J  do  not  think  that  1  can  ever  feel  again  as  1  sed 
—oh  !   how  long  ago  it  seems."  ^ 

l^ertie"'  n?V''"'  t-  '  T"  ^'"  *'^'"^  ''''^^  '^'''  '"  ''^''^^^'     And 
<VxT~'  """  l*'^^  ^■^^■''  ti-anspired  i'  " 

rothinr.7r"'r""'\"-'  ^'^•'  ^'>'""^^'  ''  ^''^^'  >"y  i^^^^^^ti 

lo  tlunk  of  hun  hurried  mto  eternity  without  a  moment's  warn. 


332 


FAIRY  GOLD. 


A\i!h''il,r"i"''.  ^''■''''''  T'^  ''^"'  ""■"'  ''^^^•'V  :    <->""'i  «'ts  silent 

Us  lust  screw  she  ca.,n„t  syn.pa.hi/e.     The-  l„„Iy  is  n 
'o   iu       f  ,o,,,s..  k.,,v„se  tluTc  is  ,u,  luuly  tc,  l,c  fc.un<l/|ie    ie 

a^;;'!;;:;;:,::;;,:""  ^^''^^'^  ^^•''"  "•"■'  -^^ — ^o.-  it ..  tcuic.!; 

"  liut  y.u  don't  tcll  me  how  you  came  to  be  in  New  York  " 
Sydney  sjivs,  fninn^  l.rightly  around.  "Is  it  n<.f  smnl.d  L 
won<kMn,    tc.  Ali.s  I  )onner  to  let  yon  ont  of  her    g  uT''  ^ 

cea  e       n'    "'  ;"'"'''  ^r   >""    '^""^^•-    '^>'^^'    ^^'"^l-«  never 
cease.       Here  I   ani  ;  and.  niy  dear  child,  1   want  to  heL^  -isa 

Annt     )''  ^'"t"'"  ^"';  ""^  ''-''-^K-^lKnuk>wor    vt      ?.anc 
Aunt  Dorn.er  knows  I  am  here;  the  rest  is  a  secret         am 
^U,|.,.m^r  at  a  hotel,  and  leave  for  Montreal  to-mo'ow      ()1 

!i;;;;^/;irK:.inn>aikt^^' '-- '  '^^-^  --^  ^-^^^^^  -^ 

Cr^,lK''?Kv'.!!  ^''''"^'''  I'.-'j-,  s'V-nt,  wondering,  l,nt  nnsnspccting. 

hlie  IS  out  just  now  sl.„|,|,ii,a,  |,„t  will  I,,.    „ck  in  in    „,,r 
Come;  up  to  myroon,  ami  lakoollyonr  things,"  '"""• 

ti...c'l"'lim'i; 'T-  I  III""''  ''*•'■;     """■'  •■>-•'''""•  ''"'-'"'t  "■/ 

von  to  II   ,        I.  "■'"•""  ''•'"'  ="'  '"""  1""K>^^'.  ■■"«   I  want 

ove,  ;;iil,'':n:'"  "'""'  *"'"  "'""^■'  ''"•^  -Kl^-nplans  for 

■I'lH-y  sit  and  cliat,  and  the  nioinents  Hy.     CvriUa  Ivdf  «khp« 

-d  ,.c,.a„,,„^ia.„.;;;n^,'-^';::r,^'!:;'^[:',,:;;™:« ''■->"-■".- 
n>j:^':;Sin"'„'::iti':;i,;:;:-„'L,:^'-'  -^--  -^"-^t,™-..  .o 

tyiiila  r.jonis  1,,^  i„„ba,ul.     Th.y  hail  a  passing  omnibus tu 


«*■'      ? 


FAIRY  COLD. 


223 


r  \vu  roiild 
liiin  Clin\- 
>f  liis  body 

sits  silent. 
"><ly  is  not 
il.  Ucrtie 
IS  tenderly 

.'w  York," 
soinetliintr 
?"  ^ 

crs  never 

beg  as  a 
.'  I  came. 
L't.  I  am 
nv.     Oh! 

tlie  very 

ispccting. 
that  she 

with  me 
isin  Katy 

so  much 
'  singing 
you  are. 
an  hour. 

.but  my 
1  I  want 
)lans  for 

If  wishes 
in  it  all, 
through 

se-maids 

'Wn  and 
on. 
part,  to 

nibns  to 


return  to  the  hotel.  Four  people  in  the  stage,  three  gentlemen 
and  A  lady,  when  they  enter.  'I'liis  Cyrilla  caielessly  sees,  but 
8hed<jesiu)t  glance  at  any  of  them  specially.  She  generally 
fmds  inon's  eyes  fixed  upon  her  wuh  a  stare  of  broad  adnuralion 
which,  though  it  dor  not  disconcert  her  at  all,  she  does  not  care 
to  meet.  A  liMudsoiie  girl  in  a  IJroadway  stage  is  no  such  rata 
avis;  still  Mrs.  Frederick  C'arew  comes  in  for  even  more  than  the 
customary  amount  of  staring.  She  sits  sui^remely  unconscious 
of  it  now,  ga/ingout  of  tiie  window,  while  Freddy  passes  up  their 
fare  and  resumes  his  seat  by  her  side. 

"  Look — not  for  an  instant  yet— at  the  woman  sitting  op- 
posite," he  says  in  l-'rencii,  in  a  guarded  tone. 

She  is  surprised,  but  she  waits  (he  moment  and  then  glances 
across.  The  woman,  a  thin,  faded,  yomigisli  woman,  sits  <lirectly 
opposite,  her  eyes  fixed  full  upon  Cyrilla,  a  glare  of  deadly  hatred 
ni  their  pale  depths.      It  is— Mary  Jane  Jones  I 

For  a  moment  they  transfix  eacii  other,  mutual  recognition 
in  their  eyes.  It  is  a  fortunate  thing  for  Cyrilla  that  her  creamy 
complexion  never  changes  color.  Then  ;;he  looks  straight  over 
Miss  Jones'  head  out  at  the  crowds  pouring  up  and  down  Broad- 
way. 

The  ride  to  the  hotel  is  a  short  one.  Mr.  Carew  pulls  the 
check  string,  and  they  get  out.  Miss  Jones  waits  until  another 
block  is  passed,  evidently  thinking  dee|jly;  then  she,  too,  alights, 
and  walks  back  to  the  hotel.  At  the  door  of  the  reailing-room 
she  i)asses  l''reil  Carew.  She  takes  no  notice,  she  goes  on  into 
the  oflice  and  up  to  the  desk,  and  accosts  the  otticial  enthroned 
there, 

"  Are  there  a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carew  stopi)ing  here  ?  "  she  in- 
quires. 

"  Ye.s,  ma'am.  Mr.  Carew's  at  the  door  there,"  answers  the 
official,  with  a  nod,  and  the  admirable  brevity  of  his  class, 

"They  are  from  Montreal?" 

"  l'"rom  Montreal." 

"  M'.)w  long  have  they  been  here  ?" 

Oilicial  refers  to  big  book,  looking  bored, 

"  Five  days." 

"I'hank  you." 
^  With  a  smile  on  her  lips.  Miss  Jones  (piits  the  iffice.     Fnd 
Carew  is  slill  standing  where  he  stood  when  she  entered,  as  she 
passes  out.     She  isauses  before  him,  with  tlsat  smile— as  unplea.-,- 
ant  a  smile  as  can  well  be  imagined— and  looks  up  in  his  face. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Carew?"  she  says. 


az^ 


VENDETTA . 


>viidc,x.d":;.  """  '"'  '"'  "'■'•-S'-^.  -J  loots  a.  her  in  a  bo 

/«:."■!  'eve'l,S"[,;r;'Srre  'r'';:  "'■^"'•^  "™'"^  ■■  "  ""' 
madam  ?"  l 'uisure   ol—ci— seci.ng  you    before, 

Miss  Jones  langlis, 

''^■•"Ic  she  knewn>e  i^tl^sti'         '   "  ''f  ^'^^'-^'^v-I  don't 
you,  Mr.  Carew."        '"^""^'''-^  to  the  match.     Good-day  to 


I 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

VENDETTA  ! 

c,;nn:;c::f;^i.i:rf.i*\:;:s^'°''^  wuhaci.d.„„ 

VVilI  that  do,  Aunt  Phil?" 

Of  .|^^nr  a -rr. !!:;;;;:,"'""' '- 

for?     You  have  ,o  nirefcu;:  J,™  *"""«  """'"^  '"^=  »  »'""S 
somotl,i„g  for  ,„>....     °"-  '"'•""8  "wn  ^  stone.    tJet  up  ami  ,!„ 

^■'^''^:T^i:^;:!:^:,i^iT^ ' <'o  re.  ror,„, 

,«ck  to  l,er  place  ;  but  she    a    ha   II      "'■'•'•    S*"';'""  S'"-*"  "oWy 
.ne  ,a,.s,,   co,„p,,i,,i,,g  voice  We'^'lf,,:;:;;,',!^-  -■«.  -"e,^ 


I 


t  Jicr  in  a  be- 

•redely  ;  "  but 
you    before, 


IS  well  as  she 
rcw--I  don't 
lilt  is  in  good 
!^ood-day   to 


't  sit  mooii- 
H)\v  all  that 
vcr  thought 

tired  sigh, 


ngcd  groan 

"1,  racking 
e  a  stone 
"P  and  do 

>wn  at  the 

:1  foryoii, 

qncrulous 
oes  softly 
;;at^  when 

ou  never 


VENDETTA  I 

know  or  care  whether  it  is  ^l■nw.  <v .         i 

not.     I  wish  iw.  1  id   thi.  n        •  '"  ^^^'^^  "^y  niedicinc  or 

over  your  1  Xa    I  h-    e  '        /"  ^''''''  '''^''  ^^"^^  ^'^'^^^  ^^'^'1  -^il 

don^  su  ga,ung  out  of  that  window  \^^^'''  ^^"'''>  ^"^ 

iK-r  hand  we      k  Tcr'  ss  ,       f   ^^  T  ,'"/^''^y  "^^^-     ^''^^^''^S 

the  n)orphinrh  nn-  ha  no  '  '  i'?  '  ' ''  "'''''  ^'^  '^''  ^'^^^"^^ 
i"  a  tiny^rJsta  c'  ^  h  .M '■'''  '^!:;"'^^\^^J"^inisters  the  drug 
next  hour.  ^'''''  ""1^-^'"^'  '^^^  least,  w.ll  quiet  her  tyrant  for  the 

in  arn,-ciuir'or  1^  chl^  a  "in  ll^s"^"":  ^V"  "?^^^  ^'^ 
May-a  soft  opal-tinted  c^k  nS  \f  '  '''''^^'  ^'^^  ^^°^^*  "^ 
Ino  burns  on  the  heS  tl  ili^  ^  J  T  ^'  ''^'-'""^-'  ''"^  ^^i"  ^  ^^'^1 
tiglub.  closed  by  order  oth.T-T  'T  f  "'^'^''  ^'^^'  ^'^"'"^  ^re 

since  seven  o'clock  this  Ir  ing  .^^'j'  "  ^f  ^''T  ^'l'^'^''''^  '' 
"lany  wearv  da\s  un<t      a  r    f-  .         ^  '^'''-'"  '"'^'atlung  it  for 

/////j/recover— heriffiir.  nl  ,1  '""^^s— -slie  will  recover-she 
she  cannot  make  t  in  d  2  '"""",^°'^^'  '^^'^  ^^'i"  ''  not  made, 
to  die.  AVI  en  .iie  i  bit.  :, ''"' -,?  "^'  ""^^Ty-she  has  not  time 
clci^yinan,    sh^'iviir^;;^^'^^-^ ':-'-, -^  send  lor  a 

pare  for  death.     She  is    not  so  veiy  olcftnlv  1  ?  ^T' 

".-any  men  and  won,en,  not  as  stron  /."she  i^^  i     ^^     '^ '  "''^>'' 
t-'ightv,  ninetv  !     This  is  notrl.nM,     i  ,       '  ''^^'  ^o  seventy, 

--^1<;  or  week  aft^  s"  wS' if  [:  !^""^>'^ '^'^"^^^  '  "^^^ 
-ill  aniend  her  life  and  t^t  ::!!,X  die     ''  "'  '""~^^"'^  "'^^ 

tdl  her llh^ t^ud^  slSv^'ir l'^  '■""'  '^'^^'  ^-'  -  --  <!-- 
at  wrath  with  11  the  wo  d  f  .Mh'  ''''''' ^^'^^^  and  unholy  life, 
<li^--  ail  inM>enitei  t  an     n  osV  dp       •  ^''^  f  ^""'  '"^"  >  =^1^'  ^vil 

--  /  jvhat.  ;^j:s!e?r X  i;;^.;!^;;!  v^!'^-^^^^ 

Sle  t^'V''-"''-''^^^"'^^''^^^"^^■■Vsinn  -'^""^   '"   '^" 


-II 


ill 


226 


VE, YD  ETTA! 


Cyrilla  gets  np,  leaves  the  room,  d  'sccnds  the  stairs  and  stands 
oiiL  ill  the  lovely  freshness  of  the  sweet  s|)riiig  ni'i-ht. 

The  air  is  full  of  balm,  of  perfume,  of  balsamic  odors;  it  is 
warm  and  wimlless  as  June — the  June  that  will  be  here  next  week, 
that  is  to  bring  Donald  McKeli)in  to  claim  his  bride.  Up  in  the 
blue  sky  shining  stars  look  down  ;  a  faint,  silver  baby  moon  is' 
away  yonder. over  her  left  shoulder,  half-lost  in  the  primrose  lus- 
tre of  the  sky.  Away  in  Montreal  half-a-dozen  bells  clasji  mu- 
sically out,  calling  the  good  French  Canadians  to  the  devotion 
ot  "  The  Month  of  May."  It  is  all  sweetness,  and  peace,  and 
Ijeauty,  and  the  white,  fagged  look  gradually  leaves  the  girl's 
face,  and  her  dark  melancholy  eyes  lose  a  little  of  their  sombre 
expression.  But  siill  she  is  very  grave,  and— where  has  her 
youth  gone  to.?    she  looks  ten  years  older  than  three  weeks 


ago 


Will  Aunt  Dormer  die  without  making  her  will  ?  That  is  the 
tlH)ught  that  haunts  her  by  night  and  by  day,  that  robs  her  of 
appetite  and  sleej),  that  makes  her  bear  imprisonment  in  that 
mo^t  miserable  sick-room,  that  makes  her  endure  the  fierce 
impitience,  the  ceaseless  complainings,  of  the  sick  woman,  with 
a  patience  that  never  fails.  If  I'hiUis  i:>ormer  dies  without  mak- 
ing her  will,  she  and  her  father  are  heirs-at-law,  and  her  father, 
even  it  alive,  will  never  disturb  her  in  her  possession.  All  will 
be  hers  and  her  husband' .s.  If  she  only  dies  without  making 
a  will!  if  she  only  dies  before  Donald  McKelpin  comes 
home. 

Even  to  her  own  heart— selfish,  mercenary,  irreligious  as 
C)rilla  is,  she  will  not  own  that  she  wishes  this  sudden  death. 
Jiut  she  does  ;  and  the  shadow  of  murder-— the  murder  of  desire-^ 
rests  ii[)on  her  as  she  stands  here. 

With  a  horror  none  but  those  who  fear  death  can  know,  Miss 
Dormer  shrinks  from  the  thought  of  making  her  will.  She  loves 
her  money  ;  all  her  dreary  life  long  it  has  been  to  her  husband, 
children,  friends,  religion.  To  will  it  deliberately  away  tc  her 
niece,  or  even  to  Donald  McKeli.in,  is  bitterer  than  the  bitter- 
ness cf  death  itself.  This  the  girl  knows;  no  will  has  been 
made,  none  is  hkely  to  be  made ;  on  that  now  all  Cyrilla's  life 
hangs.  Jf  Miss  Dormer  dies  intestate,  riches,  happiness,  this 
world  and  the  gloiy  thereof,  will  be  hers,  with  the  husband  she 
passionately  loves  ;  if  she  does  not 

"My  solemn  Cyrilla  !  "  says  a  voice  drawing  near,  "hnw  wan 
and  unearthly  you  look  standing  here  in  the  gloaming,  gazing 
at  the  stars.     If  you  had  on  a  white  dress,  you  might  have  been 


VENDETTA  I 


227 


and  stands 

)dors  ;  it  is 
:  next  week, 
Up  in  the 
by  moon  is 
iinirose  liis- 
3  clash  niii- 
e  devotion 
peace,  and 
5  the  girl's 
eir  sombre 
re  has  her 
nee  weeks 

That  is  the 
3bs  her  of 
tx\\.  in  that 
the  fierce 
)man,  with 
thoiit  niak- 
her  father, 
.  All  will 
ut  making 
)in   comes 

;ligioiis  as 
len  death, 
jf  desire — ■ 

now,  Miss 
She  loves 
r  husband, 
ray  tr)  her 
the  bitter- 
has  been 
,rilla's  life 
>iness,  this 
sband  she 

'  b.ow  wap 
i^oS  ga/ing 
have  been 


taken  for  the  ghost  of  Dormer  Mouse.     And  Dormer  House  is 
just  the  sort  of  gruesome  place  to  have  a  ghost." 

"  l-'rcddy  !  "  sli.  exclaims,  waking  from  her  gloomy  reverie  and 
holdmg  out  her  and,  "I  uuist  have  been  far  away,  mdeed, 
snice  1  never  heard  you  come." 

"  And  what  were  you  thinking  of,  J5eautv  ?  The  husband  who 
adores  you,  i  trust  ?  " 

''No,  sir ;  of  a  much  less  tender  subject— Aunt  Dormer's  will  " 

J  here  is  a  pause.  She  takes  his  arm  and  walks  with  him 
up  and  down  the  grassy  i)ath.  T^he  high  wooden  wall  shuts 
them  from  the  view  of  outsiders  ;  Miss  Dormer's  drugged  sleep 
will  last  for  another  half-hour.  Old  Joanna,  deaf  and  stupid, 
never  was  guilty  of  looking  out  of  a  window  in  her  life.  So  Mr. 
Carew  can  come  to  see  his  wife  this  time  every  evening  with- 
out  fear  of  detection.  ^ 

"  JJeauty  "  he  begins,  gravely,  at  die  expiration  of  that  pause, 
you  think  too  much  of  Miss  Dormer's  will.  Don't  be 
offended  at  my  saying  so,  but  one  may  buy  even  gold  too  dear. 
1  m  not  a  preaching  sort  of  fellow  as  a  rule,"  Mr.carew  goes  on 
apologetically,  "and  I  never  interfere  with  any  of  your  i)rojects, 
because  I  know  you've  got  twice  the  brains  I  have,  and  in  a 
general  way  know  what  you're  about.  ]iut,  iny  dear  child,  there 
IS  something  absolutely  revolting  in  the  way  you  look  forward 
to  that  poor  old  lady's  deaUi." 

Cyrilla  looks  at  him  for  a  moment  in  whimsical  surprise,  then 
she  laughs. 

"  My  dear  Fred,  what  a  precocious  little  boy  you  are  getting 
to  be  !  Your  sentiments  do  you  honor  of  course,  all  the  .same  : 
please  tell  me  what  we  are  to  do  if  Aunt  Dormer  cuts  me  otT 
with  a  shilling." 

"Trust  in  Providence  and  my  Uncle  Dunraith,  and  live  on 
my  pay  meantime,"  responds  Freddy,  promptly. 

"Where,  Fred?  In  tiie  back  bed-room  of  a  third-rate  board- 
ing-house ?  And  if  Uncle  Dunraith  turns  a  deaf  ear  to  the 
penniless  cry  of  his  starving  nephew  and  niece,  what  then?  " 

"FU  sell  out  and  start  a  grocery,  set  up  a  boarding-house, 
teach  a  school,  sweep  a  crossmg;  anything,  anything,"  says 
iM-ed,  with  a  vague  wave  of  his  hands,  "except  wish  poor  Miss 
Dormer  dead  belore  her  time." 

"  1  don't  wish  her  dead,"  answers  Cyrilla,  with  asperity,  "  but 
die  s!ie  must,  and  that  speedily  ;  is  there  any  harm,  then,  in  my 
hoping  she  may  die  without  a  will?  If  she  does,  all  is  well  for 
I'ou  and  me,  Fieddy  ;  we  will  go  back  to  England,  dear,  old 


u 


w 


328 


VENDETTA  ! 


''■«!  \ 


«^: 


ik-Wk 


m 

^ 

'\ 
1 

hi' 

\  . 

i 
.  i 

"  '  J?^°  ^"'s  w»"'  l^i't  a  single  thought. 
1  hat  never  disagree  ! ' 

2Vn!^:eV"""  '^  ^^^'-^ '^^-^IW  together,  with  Aunt  Dor 

''  We  can  be  very  happy  together  without,"  Mr.  Carew  answers. 

I  lived  in  a  garret  and  starved  on  a  crust  /could  brhinnv 

v.lla,  love,  so  that  you  were  near.     Don't  hope  too  much       £ 

"  DoTt  tlk  1'T '' ^"-'"'^  "-''^   ^-^^'  thillrder   ob;ar'' 
IJon  t   talk  of  disappouitment,"  cries  Cvrill-i   inrrli,       ..r 

u  M^  H  '• ''^^^  ^T'?  "°'''^"S  >'^^^  ^^°'"  ^^^ss  Jones  ?  " 
cl.ic-f,  loo.'-  '"•     ^""^  ^°°^'"^  ^'  'f  si'"  "Kant  n.k. 

'Miss  Jones    has  eves    evnrtlv   lu- >    „        "'  ""man  e>LS. 
"Well,  so'tha.  Au„.  Uom^nf^on  fo  ablvt'  Lf ''  ^^","'- 
■nay  do  llKir  worst.     01, !  K,  ed  •  Tow  r-^n  „!,    l    f    '"''?'''  "'">' 
wouUl  die  a.,d  „ave  do„.  .Til.  l^n^r  'i  "arS^.?,^!'^ 

shall  ever  .h'    ";„„  wie  w  'l  roiC""'''  ","'  "'^  "'l'"' ^*<-' 

••  Nonsense,  Fred  !    Fvei    1  A,,      n '      '"''   "'  ,'"''  "'"^•" 
I  -vill  ,ake  care  she  does  "o  4  "        "'.'I'i'  !     T  '"="  ''-""d 
Sj.h.ey;  and  I  can  |,rov    ,","„,.      ,,."„";';'''^*,  ',™  "■'"'"« 
•■Ai...  Jo„es.no>L  beuer;  she '^iroiirw^^S^^'lf'^a.  hotel 


VENDETTA! 


129 


,        I 


as  husband  and  wife  For  Heaven's  sake,  Cyrilla,  don't  tell  that 
dying  woman  hos,  it  is  too  contemptible.  Let  us  tell  the  truth  if 
we  must,  and  take  the  consequences.  Nothing  they  can  do  can 
ever  separate  us,  and  our  separation  is  the  only  thing  1  fear." 

i  he  only  thing  "  Cyrilla  laughs,  and  all  in  a  inoinent  her 
face  grows  old  and  hard:  "you  don't  fear  beggary,  then,  or 
squalor  or  misery,  either  for  yourself  or  for  meT    That  is  not 

T\t\  ""^^'''^^^"^  f.  f'^.^'^y^  let  me  tell  you,  once  and  for 
all,  f  Aunt  Donner  disinherits  me,  I  shall  hate  you  for  havin- 
made  me  your  wife  ! "  -^  & 

Again  there  is  silence;  again  it  is  broken  by  Fred  Carew  in 
a  troubled  voice. 

"When  doesMcKelpin  come  home,  Cyrilla?" 

"  Week  after  next ;  and  if  Miss  Dormer  is  still  alive,  she  pro- 
poses that  the  wedding  shall  be  the  day  after  his  arrival.  Her 
Illness  ,s  a  suthcient  excuse  for  no  preparation,  no  expense.  It 
IS  a  tangled  web,  1< redely,  out  of  whi^h  1  cannot  see  my  way  " 

bhe  passes  her  hand  across  her  forehead  with  the  same  weary 
gesture  as  in  the  sick-room,  and  sighs  heavily  ^ 

"  I  cannot  advise  you,  J?eauty  ;  I'm  not  agood  one  at  plotting 
and  duplicity.  Tell  the  truth  ;  that  is  the  only  way  out  of  l 
that  I  can  see.  And  you  need  not  be  so  greatly  atVaid,  things 
aie  not  as  black  as  you  pamt  them.  If  the  worst  comes  to  the 
worst,  tell  the  truth  and  trust  in  me." 

"I  must  go  in,"  Cyrilla  answers,  coldly.  "  Aunt  Dormer  will 
awake,  and  be  furious  if  she  misses  me.  I  have  watched  with 
her  two  nights ;  1  feel  hardly  able  to  stand." 

"  You  are  wearhig  yourself  out,  my  darling,"  her  husband  says, 
looking  a    her  with  wistful  tenderness.     A  \  Cyrilla,   I  nev5 
much   wished  for_  fortune    before.     I   always  seemed  to  have 
enough  ;  but  I  wish  I  were  rich  for  your  sake,     (iood-by,  then 
since  you  must  go."  ^'  ' 

"Cood-by,"  she  repeats,  mechanically.     She  turns  to  <-o  in 
He^ias  gone  a  few  steps,  when  he  wheels  suddenly  and  comes 

"  JJeauty,''  he  says,  "  I  want  to  warn  you  again.  Jf  our  bein.r 
together  in  ^c^s  York  comes  to  Miss  liormef  s  ears  confess  o^ 
marriage.  It  would  take  a  good  deal  to  make  me  an-n-y  with 
you-you  know  that ;  but  if  30U  let  any  one-any  one-think 
you  were  with  me  there  other  than  as  my  wife,  1  couldn't  forgive 
yon.     Promise  me  this." 

'« I  will  promise  you  nothing.     Good-night,"  she  says,  shordy, 
and  disappears  into  the  dark  and  dreary  dwellin-. 


II 

!  1) 


230 


VENDETTA! 


'">' 


■ 


I  if 


fj'f  r'"'''''''  ^'''''  ^'^^  ^°  ''^'  quarters,  his  handsome, genial 
fn.x-  l(.okmgstran^,x.|y  anxious  and    troubled.     And  F  J'd  Ca 

\(n     may  buy  gold   too  dear,   had  said    Fred.     Surely  she 

hong  U,f  every  penny  came  to  her,  she  was  buying  her  gold  at 

a  fearful  price.  ^    °         °  *" 

It  was  Joanna's  night  to  watch,  and  Joanna  was  already  ir 

he  s.ck-room.     The  dun  lamp  was  lit  ;  the  close  atmosplfe  e 

schemed  st.lhng  to  Cynlla,  conning  in  out  of  the  fresh,  coo   ai 

A   ss  J)ormer  opened  her  eyes  at  the  mon.ent  and  peevishk- 

cried  out  for  her  wme  and  water.  ^    ^vibm> 

"Here,  aunt." 

Cyrilla  raised  the  feeble  old  head,  gave  her  the  drink    shook 
and  adjusted  the  p,l!„ws  and  replaced  her  among  them 

1    am    very    tued,  aunt,  I    am   g(;i„g   to   my   room    now 
Jcnmna  ,s  here.     Is  there  anything  n.o're  f  can  doL  you  bS 

"  ^^-     <^'0— yoti  are  only  too  glad  to  go.     You  hate  to  sit 
an    hour   w.th    n.e    after  all   I've    done    for    you.     Ah -the 

;iiu;grbH:oo;^^^'^^^'^^-^'"^-'-^--^^^ 

"Cood-ni^ht.  Aunt  Dormer." 

Aunt   Dormer  disdains  reply.      Cyrilla  goes.     She  is  so  deid 
.rec     so  utterly  exhaus.ecl,  that  shc;^  l]i„g^  herself  on  1 "  tS 
d,  c-ssed  as  she  ,s,  and  m  hve  minutes  is  soundly  and  dreandessly 

So  soundly,  so  deei.ly,  that  when  an  hour  later  Dr    Foster 

hr;"';.nri.uir 'r'V'"  ^^^^^  '""^-     '^'-^  ladi^'a,lwU 
11  ...   t«o  ladies  who  taKe  seats  in  the  chill,  vault-like  i.arlor 

vlHle  he  goes  up  to  the  sick-room.      He  feels  'his  patient's'  pulse 
"n  lieMi:.,  '"^  ''^^^  '  ^'"  ''  ^^"'^^'^S  -!-''>'  ^-^  '-  ^'^-^ 

■I^crl'Iu'wharon':"  f'."^''  " '"^  ^''^'''  '^"^^  accon.panied  me 
'Her.aneis\n  1  ^'^^'"Lf 3'"^ 'f  ^•"^^tter  of  life  and  death, 
lit!  name  is  Mi.ss  Jones.  J'he  other  is  Mrs.  Fouarty  one  of  mv 
I>at.ents  and  the  wealthiest  lady  in  Montreal.  T  ^Vai  cbwn^ 
sta.rsand  beg  n>ost  earnestly  to  be  admitted  to  see'you.'' 

I  ne^ersee  ladies"  cries  Miss  Dormer,  shrilly;  ''you  know 
lau.  What  did  you  bring  them  here  for?  You  oi-du  to  be 
ashamed  ot  yourself,  J'oster."  ^  ^ 

Doctor  Foster  kno^ys  lier.     He  expects  to  send  in  a  bill  to 
hu   executors  presently  that  will  make  them  open   their    'yes 
He   bears   this,    therefore,  like   the  urbane  gentleman  he   i' 


V  •-  K 


-  ..:M^ 


3nie,  genial 
i  Fred  Ca- 
mt's  room. 
Surely  she 
ler  gold  at 

already  I'r 
tmosphere 
I,  cool  air. 

peevishly 


nk,  shook 

n. 

oil),  now. 

oil  before 

ate  to  sit 

Ah!  the 

.1  be  any- 


;  so  dead 

her  bed, 

janilessly 

r.  Foster 
are  with 
e  parlor, 
I's  pulse, 
does  not 

anicd  me 

d  death. 

lie  of  my 

re  dowii- 

i." 

oil  know 

U  to  be 

I  bill  to 
:ir  eyes. 
1  he   is. 


VENDETTAt 


231 


\\ 


iMirthermore,  Mrs.  Fogarty,  one  of  his  very  best  paying  patients, 
lias  given  him  to  understand  that  if  he  does  not  procure  her 
this  iiilerview,  sIk  will  be  under  tl.  painful  necessity  of  takinir 
herself  and  her  ailments  elsewhere. 

'-My  dear  lady,"  he  blandly  says,  "did  you  observe  when  I 
told  you  11  was  a  matter  of  almost  life  or  death  ?  I  really  think 
lyou  had  better  break  through  your  excellent  rule  in  this  instance. 
1  Jiey  are  ladies  of  the  utmost  resiiectability,  and  one  of  thein 
ot  great  wealth.  They  have  no  sinister  motive,  I  assure  you. 
It  is  concerning  some  extraordinary  deception  that  is  being 
Jjrfi''.^'     "^^""  ^^^  ^^  ^""''  "^'^^y  charming  niece,  Miss  Hen- 

Mi.ss  Dormer  has  been  lying  back  on  her  pillows  glaring  at 

him,  an  awful  object.     At  these  last  words  she  utters  a  shrill  cry 

'Ik  cw  It  \     \  knew  it !     I  always  said  so  !     She  comes  of 

a  bad  nice,  and  she's  the  worst  of  them  all.     Fetch   them  up 

here  at  once  I  do  you  go,  Joanna  !  fetch  them  up,  I  say  at  once.'' 

A  moment  inoie,  and  with  a  rustle  of  silk,  and  a  waft  of  per- 
lume,  Mrs.  Fogarty  sweeps  smilingly  into  the  chamber.  Ui)- 
right,  stitf,  angular,  solemn  Miss  Jones  comes  after. 
,  "  My  dear  Miss  Dormer,  at  last  1  have  the  pleasure  of  mak- 
ing your  acquaintance.  I  have  long  desired  it,  and  even  under 
the  present  melancholy  circumstances " 

Mrs  Fogarty  has  liuently  and  smilingly  got  thus  far  when 
Miss  Dormer,  with  a  harsh  cry,  cuts  her  short. 

"  I  don't  want  any  of  your  fine  talk,  ma'am.  I  know  what 
fine  talk  is  worth.  Old  Foster  and  my  niece,  Cyrilla,  give  me 
tnough  of  that.  It's  about  my  niece,  Cyrilla,  you' vt>  come. 
iNow  what  have  you  got  to  say  ?  " 

"  ^Vi"^^'  \  '"^^'^^  '■'-'^">'  -'ipologize  for  the  hour  of  our  comin<r." 
says  Mrs.  fogarty;  "but  this,  also,  is  the  fault  of  your  niece 
1   have  been  here  twice  this  week,  and   she  refused  me  admis- 
sion.    I  don  t  call  her  Miss  Hendrick,  because  Miss  Hendrick 
has  ceased  to  be  her  name  ! " 

A  second  harsh  cry  from  Miss  Dormer,  her  sunken  eyes  are 
glaring  in  a  ghastly  way  up  at  the  speaker. 

"Not  her  name  ?      Woman,  what  do  you  mean  ?      Why  is 
^-yrilla  Hendrick  not  her  name  ?" 

"  IJecause,"  answers  Mrs.  Fogarty,  snapi)ing  her  white  teeth 
together  like  an  angry  little  dog,  "  it  is  Mrs.  Frederic  Carew !" 
Ur  ought  to  be  !  "  in  a  suicmu  voice,  puts  in  Miss  Jones. 

At  the  sound  of  that  name,  that  name  unheard  so  long,  never 
Jorgoten,  Phillis  Dormer  gives  a  gasp  and  lies  speechless. 


n 


n 


'■i  B'  i'! 


I  '* 

i 


8J2 


VENDETTA! 


think 


Frederic  Carew  !  Frederic  C 


iiii;  of,  not  the  son. 


U'o  luvve  taken  you  by 


Y(jii  (li 


not  know,  1  presume,  h 


arew  !     It  is  the  father  she 


snrprise,"     Mrs.  I'o 


13 


i.ict,  nevertlieless.      \\ 


e  w 


'i;is  !)ccn  lioldin.r  c 


c  came  last  Oclohci 


garty  goes  oji. 
IS  m  Canada  at  all.  Such  is 


She  ki 


gcontnuial  intercourse  with  1 
th     ' 


and 


your  niece 


nin  ever  since. 


.      '^"  *<"o\vs  now,  tne  first  shock  over     It  i^  tlu.   .,..,     r  "i"    i 

coinesCtoherfoce.  '     '^'''  ^ ''^'■'■'^''   '^n.^ry  eagerness 

^'^'Jioon!  goon!"  she  pants. 
"  It  is    Miss  Jones  who  has  the  sforv  to  f,.ii  "  ,„      ,, 


your  niece, 


.ought  to  be  .'"croaks  again  Miss  Jones. 
Or  ought  to  be,  exactly.    Still  I  think  she  A-     'v^. 
ago  your  niece   wis  in    iv!.,.,   v     i  ,  ,•        ^'-     -f^hree  weeks 

"•A^:rtr^;;^?-  f^^^-^^-ttee^i'-'^- 
streets  of  New  York  "  weeks  ago  m  the 
a™V;Sm,;if;^;':'-'-- ''-■-•'  —  li-a,u,  Iis.c.,  f,„-y 

of  .Lis  journey  „„e.  ail  ut^lf  r       '  ^.    rvt'k"!'  ^1""" 


uecKient  i  te     ni  w  ih   rhi^   i.,  i,  •  ■'  "'^  merest 

'i-™«i.  Ik.,-  1  i.av:t,'  ,,'";■',:';»:>•  r^^' '"  *'''"'^'--^"' 

aiKl  whcllior  sl,c  is  lliis  n  a n's  ,  ;',         '  .  ,■      ?'"'  ""-'"■  '->""•'>, 

for  u  „..k  i„  .Ik' cia?;,x:  H:",.r»'""' '"""  "■"" '"'"  -  ---^ 

:.l''.s   m:':  ';■:;;';,'"'  'f:f  '"■'■■■  '"^"  "■--->•  --«  1,...,.,-  inter- 
line betweonX™  nn-self."  ""-■  '"""""■"'  '  ^'=S"^""S  love 


ru 
see 


"il"sisallf"sl>el,oaiseiyasks,atle.>i.U,. 


father  slie  is 

arty  goes  on. 
It  all.  Such  is 
ul  }  our  jiK'ce 
'er  since." 
(»n  of  Frecle- 
1,  they  mean. 
;iy  eagerness 


's  Mrs.  Fog. 
your  niece, 


'hree  weeks 
Afr.  Carew 
:s." 

tells  her  all. 
Miss  Hen- 
venge  upon 
ago   in   the 

istens,  fury 

with  grim 
(-1  c'xpcnse 
o  tell  you 
oni  Made- 
sliked  this 
•  r  that  you 

own  sake 
;he  merest 
Montreal, 
e,  Cyril  la, 
11  as  such 

IS,"  inter- 
ting  love 


an.  glares 


VENDETTA!  ^^^ 

Ihc'o:!,'','."""'"'  "'"'"  "'■"'  °'"'"^"  ■■'™>'  f~"'  <""-■  "'"--I  l^>ce  to 
I  ;;i;;;;;.'.'5';',l"-'^l""-'--'"°"--I'eatalltl,isi„  ...^  „ieco's  presence,' 
'■Whenever  anj  wherever  called  upon,"  replies  Miss  Tones 

.;..;  .u.e  anu  .a,i„«  ,o  pa;  f;;^ra"^,i;,-,x^,^r"^^^^^^^^ 
;;rrs;t^-^:,:;;;:rt;Lr'tr'?^H^V 

;;:-.e.|,  and  was  l,e,raye<h    no.v  she  'fas'^d.    "r  K  T 

l.l.e  a  n,ad>von,a„  a,  ,ha,,  and  beats  .he  bed  cIo,he»  wiXnantio 
Joanna  do  vmfh"?;',  ^■'''-■"-S''  '°   ''"y"-  ''"'""--■''«  ''onsc. 

jwiuina,  uo  )OU  near  J*    (,,o go  af  our.'     f'n     I  f    II  •    1    .  ,. 

(\\,\    1  .  o     iiL  iJiiee.   VjO,  1  tell  vou.diiirk    '' 

«ank,/l?i;:;'ij:.r."» '™'  •""'<" "---« °'''"-'- 

"  Jdiot !  tool !  what  do  you  stand  gaping  there  for  ?      T^nn't 

S  r°sr["^^°  -".stil^^n!^;;..  i[f  Jr.^;  :^i£t 

Joanna  never  disputes  her  mistress's  will.     She  looks  at  fhn 


I;l> 


234 


"  GOOD-DYE,  SWEIlTIIEART:' 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


'I  » 


III 


"COOn-llVF,    SWKr.THEART." 

I\I  LLA,  as  a  rule,  was  inclined  to  sleep  late  of  morn 
ings  ;  Mif^s  DornuT,  as  a  rule,  was  inclined  not  to  let 
her.  At  seven,  precisely,  winter  and  summer,  Joanna 
stood  at  her  bedside,  to  summon  her  down  stairs.  At 
seven  on  the  niornini;  after  her  interview  with  Fred,  Cjrilla  ex- 
pected to  be  routed  out  as  usual.  I5ut  when  she  opened  her 
eyes,  after  the  long  unbroken  sleej),  it  was  to  lind  the  sunshine 
lilhng  her  scantily  furnished  little  upper  ch  jiiber,  and  the  clock 
of  a  neighboring  church  tolling  tiie  hour  of  nine. 

Nine  !  Siie  sprang  from  her  bed  in  dismay.  What  was 
Aunt  Dormer,  what  was  Joanna  about,  lo  let  her  sleep  Hke 
this  ?     Had  anything  happened  in  the  night?     Was  Aunt  Dor- 

iinr ,  she  would  not  finish  the  (luestion  even  to  herself,  but 

her  heart  gave  a  great  bound.  'J'he  ne.xt  moment  she  knew 
belter;  il  anything  libe  iluit  had  occurred,  she  wcnddhave  been 
instantly  summoned  by  the  deaf  old  domestic,  she  felt  sure 
She  hurriedly  arranged  her  clothes,  made  her  hasty  ablutions, 
smoothed  her  dark  rippling  hair  and  ran  down  to  her  aunt's 
room.  She  softly  oi)ened  the  door  and  entered.  The  close, 
ielid  atmosphere  seemed  to  sicken  her,— ill  or  well,  Miss 
iJormer  had  an  insuperable  aversion  to  fresh  air.  She  advanced 
to  the  bedside  ;  in  the  dim  light,  the  skinny  bloodless  face  lay 
still  upon  Its  i)illows  ;  the  eyes,  glitteringly  bright,  looked  up 
at  her  with  a  weird  stare. 

"Dear  aunt,  I  am  sorry  I   overslept  myself.     How  was    it 
Joanna  did  not  call  me  as  usual  ?  " 

"You  have  watched  wiii.  me  two  nights  in  succession,  Niece 
Cyrilla.     Young  people  need  rest." 

"How  are  you   this  morning,  Aunt  Phil?     Easier,  I  trust  ? 
Have  you  had  a  good  night  ?  " 

At  that  question  the  old  woman  broke  into  the  stranoest, 
wildest  laugh  ;  a  laugh  most  dreailful  to  hear,  most  ghastly  to^'see' 
"A  good  night,  Niece  Cyrilla  ?  Yes,  a  good  night,  a  good 
lught,  the  like  of  which  J've  never  had  but  once  before,  and  that 
iive-and-twenty  years  ago  !  And  Pm  strong  and  w-ll  to-dn--  = 
you'll  be  glad  to  hear,  for  Pve  a  great  deal  to  do  befor<i  night.' 
JNiece  Cyrilla,  do  you  believe  in  ghosts?" 


*' GOODBYE,  SiVEETHEART:' 


ajS 


late  of  morn 
ncd  not  to  let 
niner,  Joanna 
\vn  stairs.  At 
;cl,  Cyrilla  ex- 
e  opened  her 

tile  sunshine 
and  the  clock 

AVhat  was 
er  sleep  like 
as  Aunt  I)or- 
o  herself,  hut 
nt  she  knew 
il(lh;ive  been 
he  felt  sure. 
>ty  ablutions, 
o  her  aunt's 

The  close, 
•  well,  Miss 
>he  advanced 
Hess  face  lay 
t,  looked  up 

How  was   it 

:ssion,  Niece 

sier,  I  trust  ? 

le  strangest, 
lastly  to  see. 
ight,  a  good 
jre,  and  that 
well  to-day  ; 
jeforu  night. 


"  Dear  aunt." 

«'  Yes.  1  am  dear  to  you,  am  I  not  ?  You  wouldn't  deceive 
or  trouble  ine  in  any  way,  would  you  ?  I'm  {,a)ing  to  see  a 
ghost  to-day,  Niece  Cyrilla— ghosts  don't  generally  appear  in 
daylight  either,  do  they  ?— the  ghost  of  a  man  dead  and  buried 
five  and  twenty  years.  Fivc-andtwenty  years  I  Oh,  me,  what 
a  while  ago  it  seems  !  " 

Was  the  oUl  woman  going  insane  ?  Was  this  the  delirium 
that  precedes  death?  Cyrilla  stood  looking  rt  her,  and  yet 
there  was  no  fever  in  her  face,  no  wildness  in  her  eyes,  and 
cra/y  as  her  talk  was  it  did  noi  ..ouiul  like  delirium.  'I'he 
golden  rays  of  the  jubilant  morning  sunshine  tried  to  force  a 
])assage  in,  and  here  and  there  succeeded,  making  lines  of 
amber  glitter  across  the  dull  red  carpe^.  All  things  were  in 
their  places,  no  voice  spoke  to  tell  her  that  in  this  room  her 
ruin  last  night  had  been  wrought. 

"Go  down-stairs,  Niece  Cyrilla,  and  get  your  breakfast. 
Fetch  me  up  mine  when  you  come.  I  have  something  to  say 
to  you  wlicn  it  is  over." 

Something  to  say  to  her!  Wondering,  uneasily,  the  girl  de- 
scended  to  the  kitchen,  the  only  clean  and  cozy  apartment  in 
the  house,  where  Joanna,  on  a  little,  white-draped  stand,  had 
lier  tea  and  toast  set  out. 

"Joanna  I  "  shouted  Cyrilla,  sitting  down  to  her  morning  meed, 
"did   anything  more  than  customary  hapi)en  here  last  night  ?" 
The  oKl  woman  nodded  her  deaf  head. 

"  Aye,  miss,  that  there  did.  She  had  visitors.  T.adies," 
(Joanna  spoke  invariably  in  short  jerks),  "fine  ladies.  Silks 
and  scents  on  one.     Come  with  the  doctor." 

Ladies  !  Instantly  Cyrilla's  mind  Hew  to  Miss  Jones.  But 
"silks  and  scents"— that  did  not  apply. 

"  Was  one  of  them  tall  and  thin,  with  a  sharp,  pale  face,  a 
long  nose,  a  tight,  wide  mouth,  pursed  \\\>  like  this— and  a  way 
of  folding  her  hands  in  front  of  her— so  ?" 

"Aye,  miss— that's  her.  Tall  and  thin.  With  a  long  nose. 
And  a  wide  mouth.  And  her  hands  in  front  of  her.  That's 
her,  miss — to  the  life." 

Miss  Jones  then,  at  last.  "Hast  thou  found  me,  O  mine 
enemy?"  While  she  slept,  off  guard,  her  foe  had  forced  her 
way  m  and  all  her  s-cret  was  told.  She  turned  for  a  moment 
sick  and  taint— slie  turnetl  away  from  her  untasted  breakfast 
and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  This,  then,  was  what  Miss 
Dormer  meant. 


I 


it  111  f ' 


236 


il 


I  i 

11 


I! 


u 


ft 


"  GOOD  /i  Yi:,  SIVEE  TIIF..  t/fT» 


....  .  ^  "*'^^'"  ^^^' '  ^'^''1"  ^'I'l  Joiuina,  still  in  jerks.  "  Tall,  too. 
Uliito  tcctii.  Silks  ;ui.-i  scents.  Roses  in  licr  bonnet.  Reil 
KlH)ts  on  her  cheeks.     Taint,  /think." 

Mrs.  Fogarty!  There  was  no  niistaking  the  (lescriplion— 
tlie  only  two  who  haled  her  on  earth.  M\  was  over— notl  in" 
reinanicd  but  to  "  cover  her  face  and  die  with  dignity."  ^^ 

And  then,  in  Joanna's  little  kitchen,  all  aglitter  with  its 
tlo()(ls  of  May  bun.sMne,  a  struggle  began— a^truggle  for  a 
soul. 

"  Tell  the  truth.  All  the  money  in  the  world  is  not  worth 
om-  sucli  he  as  this.  It  is  /oo  conteniptible  to  deceive  that  poor 
old  dying  lady,"  whisi)ered  her  good  angel  in  the  voi<-e  of  Fred 


Carew.      "  Come  with   ine  ;   I  will  care  for 


you.     Things  will 


not  I)e  so  bad  as  you  fear.  Trust  in  Providence  and  my  undo 
Dunraith.  Meantime  we  can  live  on  my  pay."  I'Yed's  honest 
blue  eyes  shiiic  upon  her,  Fred's  tender,  manly  voice  is  in  her 
ears.  "  Jf  this  does  come  to  your  aunt's  knowledge,  don't  deny 
our  marriage.  Mind  I  I  warn  you.  It  would  take  a  great 
deal  to  make  me  angry  with  you,  but  I  could  not  forgive  that  " 
Ihe  tender  voice  grows  stern,  the  pleasant  face  grave  and  set 
as  he  says  it.     "Oh!  tell   the  truth,"  her  own  heart   pleads; 

It  IS  a  revolting  tiling  to  tell  deliberate  lies  to  the  dying." 

"And  lose  all  for  which  you  have  labored  so  hard— siilfered 
so  much— borne  so  many  insults— endured  months  and  months 
of  imprisonment  worse  than  death  I  Leave  this  house  and  go 
<nit  to  beggary,  to  humiliation,  to  pinching  and  poverty,  ..cant 
dinners,  and  scantier  dress  !  Let  your  arch  enemies,  l'\)garty 
and  Jones,  triumph  over  you,  throw  up  the  sponge  to  Fate  at 
the  first  defeat,  and  resign  the  fortune  justly  yours- yours  by 
every  claim  of  blood  and  law— to  Donald  McKeli)in  !  Never  !  " 

She  looks  up,  her  eyes  Hash,  her  teeth  set,  her  hands  clench. 
Never !  _  She  will  light  to  the  last  against  them  all— a-ainst 
JJestmy  itself.     She  will  die  sooner  than  yield. 

The  battle  is  over,  the  victory  won,  and  the  tempter,  whis- 
pering m  her  ear,  in  tiie  archives  below,  "records  one  lost  soul 
more." 

"Joanna,"  she  says,  rising,  "is  Aunt  Dormer's  breakfast 
ready  ?     I  want  to  bring  it  up." 

'_'  lUit  you've  eat  none  yourself?  Tea  ain't  drunk— toast 
amt  eat.  Sick,  are  you?"  says  old  Joanna,  peering  in  her 
lace.     "  You're  white  as  a  shei  t," 


"Am  1  ?  "   Cyrilla  answers,  with  a  laugh.   "  I 
red,  you  know." 


am  never 


very 


U.. 


r's  breakfast 


1  never  very 


"C.OOD.nYE,SlVKETirEART»  ,37 

P^Kt^w^;nS;-!,—:^; -,•'-'.;.- .00,,.  «'- 

feclly  cookcrl."  ^'Vcr>thmg  is  fiosli  and  nice,  aiul  per- 

.    Surely  nature  intended  this  .ri.I  for  an  ictr<-.      v., 

IS  braced  for  the  coniinir  striiLarl..      •„  ?.  .•   '^""'"^  "*''"^^' 

joa„„:-^;,;™;,Vscl!  1;;';™';:"'.'  "■"""""•= """  "-^  »'■'"  b- 

^nt,  A„„,^J;"|'."  "'"■■™'^'^  ^"  '^)"-''™"»-    "  I  a-  not  a  clairvoy. 
,^_^A|;"t    H.il  laual,,,  her   dfeh,   „„«„„,,  ,„„,(   .lisagr.cabk. 

"  V'on're  a  clever  cirl    Nicrf  P,i;ii.-       1  < 
clever  Kirl.     Rit  the  F    .n  1     i     M'llla— oh:    an  unconnnonly 

^^^Zul\:;;;  ™  •""  I"'--  "•■'"--■ "«!.  -Ki  look .    ', ' 


ev 


Are  you  not  ?     Then  von  differ  f, 


111 


our  father  n 


ever  told  the  ii 


idiic 


'Hii    iii()li-ei 


iilier  grapes  of  thorns,  or  fi.rs  of  tl 


ks   / 
uin  ni  hi.^  hfe,  and  we 


was   a  weak  little  fool 


ii'-'ies,  we  are   told. 
erha[i.s  you   take  your 


0 


Ifl 
1 1 


238 


"  GOOD-B  YE,  SIVEE TIIEAK 7'." 


trnth-tclUn,!:^  proclivities  from  her.  Let  me  see,  wheic  I  want 
to  begin  !     Xiece  Cyrilla,  is  Frederick  Carew's  son  in  Canach  ?  " 

"Ah  !  you  liave  found  that  out  !  How  cruel  to  tell  you — ■ 
you  who  hate  the  very  sound  of  the  name." 

"  You  own  it  then  ?  He  is  here.  You  have  met  him  ;  have 
been  meeting  him  constantly  since  last  October  ?  " 

Cyrilla  looks  up — a  Hash  of  indignation  in  her  eyes. 

*'  No,  Aunt  Dormer,  1  deny  it  !  Whoever  tells  you  that,  tells 
you  a  falsehood.  I  have  seen  him — only  a  few  times — and  1 
did  not  speak  of  it  to  you.  Why  should  I  ?  1  knew  it  would 
vex  you  to  know  he  was  here  at  all,  and  his  presence  made  no 
difference  to  me,  one  way  or  other." 

"  None  !  Take  care  !  Is  he  not  your  lover,  Niece  Cy- 
rilla ?  " 

"  Aunt.  I  was  a  little  girl  when  I  knew  him  in  England.  I 
never  thought  of  such  a  thing  as  lovers.  Here  1  have  met  him, 
but  a  few  times  as  1  say,  and  always  in  the  jjresence  of  others. 
We  have  had  no  opportunity,  if  we  had  the  desire  to  be  lovers. 

"Always  in  the  i)resence  of  others,"  Miss  Dormer  repeats, 
her  basilisk  ijraze  never  leaving  Jier  niece's  unllinching  face. 
**Wlio  were  tiie  'others'  the  night  you  stole  out  of  your  bed- 
room window  at  school,  to  meet  him  in  darkness,  and  by  stealth, 
in  llie  grounds  of  your  school  ?" 

"  Tliey  have  told  you  that,  then  ! "  exclaims  Cyrilla,  in  con- 
fusion. "  Aunt,  dear  aunt  !  do  not  be  angry.  1  did  do  that — 
a  rash  act,  1  allow,  and  one  for  which  1  nearly  suffered  severely, 
but  I  did  it  only  to  hear  news  of  papa.  You  do  not  believe  me, 
perhai)s." — Oh  !  the  intinite  scorn  and  unbelieving  of  Miss 
J)ormer's  f:ice — but  1  love  my  fi.Uher,  and  am  always  glad  and 
eager  to  hear  news  of  him.  Fred  Carevv  was  just  from  England, 
he  had  seen  him  shortly  before,  and  brought  from  him  a  message 
for  me.  He  tried  to  deliver  it  at  Mrs.  Delamere's — where  by 
purest  accident  we  met — but  an  odious  woman,  one  of  the 
teachers,  gave  him  no  chance.  1  was  dying  to  hear  it — 1  know 
and  regret  my  folly,  aunt — I  did  steal  out  and  spend  ten  minutes 
with  him  in  the  garden  ;  not  more.  The  woman — a  detestable 
spy — found  me  out,  and  Mile.  Chateauroy  threatened  to  expel 
nie.  Aunt,  I  assm-e  you  that  was  the  tirst  and  only  time — oh, 
well  !   witli  one  exception." 

"Ani.1  that  exception,  my  dear  Niece  Cyrilla?" 

"  Was  in  Mew  York.  Leavin":  Miss  Owenson's  house  one 
day,  1  encountered  him  in  Madison  Scpiare.  He  rode  down 
town  with  me  in  the  omnibus,  and  in  that  oumibus  we  met  by 


ivhcie  I  want 
in  Canadu?" 
to  tell  you — 

jt  him ;  have 

yes. 

'Oil  that,  tells 
times — and  I 
lew  it  would 
nee  made  no 

,    Niece  Cy- 

Enirland.  I 
ave  met  him, 
ice  of  others, 
to  be  lovers, 
iner  repeats, 
nching  face, 
of  your  bed- 
id  by  stealth, 

•rillo,  in  con- 
'/(/  do  that — 
red  severely, 
t  believe  nie, 
:ing  of  Miss 
ays  glad  and 
om  England, 
ni  a  message 
s — where  by 
,  one  of  the 
,r  it — 1  know 
1  ten  minutes 
-a  detestable 
ned  to  exjjel 
ly  time — oh, 


j  house  one 

rode   down 

s  we  met  by 


"  GOOD-BYE^  SlVEETf/EAA'T." 


239 

chance,  Miss  Jones,  the  si)vin£r  teacher      T^  Jc  r-^     1        „,• 

"  And  that  is  all,  Niece  Cvrilh     nil  >     v 

"•oui^u"  ?„^hi\s";;  cSf  '■'  ""^ '""  '"■''  "<"  "-■" "-  " 
civ., .,.  .„e„ "  ^i^  t!:;i::,s,x-Jr '"'  ™'  "- 

"  ilc  is  J^^r^r?'"    '  '""•■■'"°"'"S  -^y«  below. 

aloud.  '  "'  ''^'^  J"'^^"  '-^  ^"  stupendous  ,hat  Cyrilli  laugh. 

"  You  did  not  live  witii  him  n«  ii.v  ,..;f     r  ,    • 

never  .ce,„  ,o  go  for  a  scco    1  fr"^r  ,".■'■  f™'."  ";.""',  ' 

starts  „p  „ulig,K,„,ly,  as  if  ,l,is  were  „  «   I      A,,    '"•'-     *'-""'^' 

•  Amu  Dormer  !  "  she  exclai,„s  ha.r.luih    S'll,;..  i-  1,  . 

1  have  no  more  to  say  i"  '  "  ''^  ^"  ''"''  nie-the.i 

eic:;;:^:;  w:lh  ou!l^:g.!n;..!r  't  ?ix.'!;^i'"^v'^^^  r  ^- 

the  look,  were  admiraWe  Whin  s^^^  f  T"'^  ^^^  f  "'' 
played  J,ady  Teazle  better  than  .l^orDolW  I  ^c^cv  th'^' 
can  he  no  doubt  she  spoke  the  truth  ^         "'^'  "'"''^' 

logoff  the  indictn.ents^on  fe.    ],?;•., 'T.^'^^^^"'■'."^"'■' ^'^'-"-k. 


liiui  at  the  Dclamen 
to  h, 


e  s  and  at  die  Fo-'-arty 


may  fingt-rs,  "to  hav 


iving  come  ui)on  him  by  accid 


woman 


nig  met 
'oil  own 


with  him  in  an 


ommbus.     But  h 


eiu  m  iVew  Vork,  and  ridd 


en 


e  never  was  your  lover,  and  he 


4 

■i . 
i 

•  - 

f ' 

n 

n 

n 

■HE. 

fffff 

■'  ' 

1 

240 


"  COOD-B  YE,  S WEE  THEAR  T. " 


is  not  yoitr  husband.  You  never  lived  with  him  for  a  week  in 
a  New  York  hotel.     That  is  how  the  case  stands  ?  " 

Cyrilla  bows ;  her  face  pale,  her  eyes  black,  her  form  erect, 
her  look  iiuiignant. 

"  You  see  I  want  to  make  things  clear,"  continues  Miss 
Dormer,  all)los^  aj^ologetically  ;  "  my  time  may  be  short,"  a 
spasm  convulses  her  face  ;  "  and  a  good  deal  dei)ends  on  it. 
Mr.  McKelpin  will  be  here  next  week,  and  your  innocence 
must  be  proven  before  he  returns.  I  would  rather  believe  these 
women  false  than  you.  You  will  not  mind  denying  all  this  in 
their  presence,  I  suppose,  Niece  Cyrilla?" 

"  Certainly  not.  Aunt  Dormer." 

"Then  I  think  that  will  do.  I  am  tired  with  all  this  talking. 
Sit  down  there,  and  take  that  book,  and  read  me  to  sleep." 

Cyrilla  obeys.  Fier  heart  is  beating  in  loud,  nuiffled  throbs, 
she  feels  sick  and  cold,  a  loathing  of  herself  fills  her.  But  she 
will  not  go  back — on  the  dark  road  she  is  treading  there  seems 
no  going  back. 

At  noon  tlie  doctor  comes,  and  Cyrilla  quits  the  sick-room 
for  a  breathing-s[)ell.  In  that  interval  the  doctor  receives  from 
his  patient  a  message  for  "  the  h'ogarty  woman."  She  is  to 
wait  upon  Miss  Dormer  with  her  friend  Miss  Jones  at  five 
o'clock.  She  also  dictates  a  note  to  a  third  person,  which  the 
obliging  ph)  sician  undertakes  to  deliver. 

Miss  Dormer  keeps  her  niece  under  her  eye  until  about  half- 
past  four  in  the  afternoon.  Then  she  despatches  her  to  the 
druggist's,  with  orders  to  be  back  i)recisely  at  five.  Cyrilla  is 
glad  to  go  out,  glad  to  breathe  the  fresh,  clear  air.  The 
walk  is  long,  she  hurries  fast,  gets  what  she  wants  and  huriies 
back.  IJut,  in  spite  of  her  haste,  it  is  ten  minutes  past  [\vc  when 
she  lets  Iieiself  in,  and  runs  up  to  her  aunt's  cliamber.  She 
llings  o|)en  the  door  and  enters  hastily. 

"  The  druugist  keiit  me  some  time  waiting  while  he " 

She  has  got  this  far  when  she  breaks  off,  and  the  sentence  is 
never  finished.  Her  eyes  have  grown  accustomed  to  the  dusk 
of  the  room,  and  she  sees  sitting  there,  side  by  side,  her  two 
mutual  foes — Mrs.  Fogarty  and  Miss  Jones. 

"  You  know  these  two  ladies,  Niece  Cyrilla?  "  says  the  shrill, 
j)iping  voice  of  TTiss  Dormer. 

Cyrilla  stands  before  them,  her  black  eyes  liashing — yes,  liter- 
ally ami  actually  seeming  to  Hash  fire,  fttrs.  Fogarly's  ga/e 
sinks  ;  but  Miss  Jones,  the  better  hater  of  the  two,  meets,  with 
her  light,  sinister  orbs,  (hat  look  of  black  fmy. 


n 
w 


"GOOD.BYE,  SWEETHEART,^^ 


)r  a  week  in 

form   erect, 

tinucs  Miss 
36  short,"  a 
)ends  on  it. 
r  innocence 
)eliove  these 
r  all   this  in 


this  talking. 

sleep." 
filed  throbs, 
IX.     But  she 

tlicre  seems 

le  sick-room 
eceives  {\o\\\ 
'  She  is  to 
3nes  at  live 
1,  which  the 

il  about  half- 
her  to  the 
.  Cyrilla  is 
r  air.  The 
and  huriies 
ist  five  when 
miber.     She 

he " 

3  sentence  is 

to  the  dusk 

ide,  her  two 


lys  the  shrill, 

5— yes,  liter- 

ij^urly's  ga/.e 

meets,  with 


i 


"^V^  '">''"''^^oi-tune,  Aunt  Dormer  "  <;nv=  r     ^^^    ■ 
ing  voice,  "  to  have  known  tiiem  o^ii''    Tl       ^7"^  '"  "■  ''"S- 
except  as  slanderers  and  traducers  ! ''         ^  ^"°^'  ''^"'"  "^  '"^^^^^ 

n.el^her^ilhlS.r '^he^ s.d"  ^'.  '''Y''  ^^  ^  - 
pugilistic  encounter  a  a  tTfJ'7''  T^  V.''^'  ^'  '«  ^ 
Cyrilla.  ^'^^'    ^"'^    ^^^<^   first   blood   is   for 

iikr!^ni;itLrhfth?'ij^rs^''-"'''  ^  ^'^^-^  °^  --^^in- 

else  the  Hendrickstci^d     he^,tr   rcLr r   ^'T'"^ 

the  gS  <^L5li;T  'i;^^J^^^  Miss  Dormer  has  called 
tinie  in  her  life,  kisses  her  ^        *"'  ^'^''  ^"^  ^"^  ^^e  third 

Theyhateme,  bohoft  Ln      t/;..^?"''  ^7"  ^'^'^   ^"'>   ^^^ol 
•"e.     Do  not  let  them  doM  ^  ^  ^'^"''  ^^'^^  ^'^'^  P'°t  to  ruin 

Slie  is  obeyed      It  i.    r   I  \^^'^  """'^  '"^^'^^^  '"e  up." 

i"  the  girl's  b'oc?;-  is  br  ced   she  ^U    T  ''''  ^"^^'^^     ^^-^  "^rve 
to  defeat  these  two.     A  ^ain  o     ^    ."^"'^^^tnothing-ati//,/,,., 

:- thousand  n^otalro^  a  dl;^^^?"^^^  T'''  '"  '  «^- 
-':^y  sun  is  setting.  Miss  Dor  ^  "'^"1  ''^  ^"'"real  the 
^-  '^loment  wistfulfy  out  at  that  ove  u  I'T'/'^^'^^P'  ^"^^  looks  for 
set  she  will  ever  see.  ^  ''^'''  '"  ^iie  sky-last  sun- 

It  is  a  highly  dramatic  scene      Therlontl, 
cusers  sitting  side-bv-side  fh,  .  ,1  ^'eath-room,  the  two  ac- 

head  tln-ovvn  backs  her  e'lafh'h''  "''^T'-'^  ^"'■^'^^'  ^er  haughty 
hands  unconscioitly  cle,iched  '  '  '"'^  ^'^^^  ^"^'  ''^''^  ^'"-N  her 
i,  ii;;:::?,'^^  ^>-"a.  there  is  a  Bible  yonder  on  the  table.     Hand 

papL;r  ^'^"^'     ^^-  ^-"-  opens  it,  and  takes  out  a  fblded 
"  N.eceCvrilla,  look!"  she  savs.  and  holds  it 


i"ist    light  whil 


"Uile  it.       It    b 


e  vou  si 


AlcKel|)in — it  d 
will,  all  is  your 


equeaths    everythin 


ept  I  sent  for  my  Ja 


"P  ;  "  It  is  II 


oes  not  leave  you  a  penny.     If  1  ,1,^ 
s,  as  you  know.     Prove  these  two  ladies 


,  .     .        w-yer  and 

g-_everything---to    Donald 

ie  without  a 

wrong  in 


w 


242 


'' GOOD-BYE,  sweetheart:* 


1 


..e  1: 


what  they  have  come  here  to  accuse  you  of,  and  I  will  give  you 
this  paper  to  burn  or  destroy  as  you  see  fit,  tnd  my  solemn 
promise  to  make  no  other." 

A  gleam  like  dark  lightning  leaps  from  Cyrilla's  eyes.  Prove 
them  wrong !  What  is  there  that  she  will  stop  at  to  prove  them 
wrong? 

"  My  Niece  Cyrilla,"  goes  on  the  sick  woman,  turning  to 
Miss  Jones,  "  admits  that  she  stole  out  of  her  room  to  meet 
this  young  ofiker  one  night  in  the  school  garden.  She  achnits," 
looking  at  Mrs.  Fogarty,  "  liaving  met  liim  at  your  house  and 
at  Mrs.  Delamere's.  She  admits,"  glancing  again  at  Miss  Jones, 
"having  encountered  him  by  accident  in  New  York,  and  riding 
witli  inm  a  short  distance  in  the  omnibus.  But  all  else  she 
denies,  positively  and  totally  denies.  Mr,  Carew  is  not  her 
lover,  IS  not  and  never  will  be  her  husband.  She  is  to  marry 
Mr.  Oonald  M<-,Kel|)in  next  week.  Now,  which  am  1  to  be- 
lieve—my  niece,  ladies,  or  yuu  ?  " 

"  Your  niece  is  a  most  accomplished  actress,  madam,"  savs 
the  saw-like  vuice  of  Miss  Jones;  "she  can  tell  a  deliberate 
falsehood  and  look  you  straight  in  the  face  while  telling  it.  She 
inay  not  be  Mr.  Carew's  wit'e— all  the  worse  for  Mr.  McKeI|)in 
if  slie  IS  not;  for  she  certainly  lived  with  Mr.  Carew  as  J/r^-. 
Carew  m  i^^w  York  for  a  whole  week,  1  saw  them  enter  the 
hotel  together,  1  inciiiircd  of  tiie  clerk,  and  he  told  ine  they 
had  been  there  together  hve  days  as  man  and  wife." 

"Niece  Cyrilla,"  says  Miss  J)ormer,  "  what  have  you  to  sav 
to  this?"  ^  ^ 

"Nothing  to  her,"  replied  Cyrilla  ;  "  to  you  I  say  it  is  false  ! 


totally  fiilse 


a  fabrication  from  beginnuig  to  e 


nd. 


"^1-et  us  call  another  witness,"  says  Miss  Dormer,  "  since  we 
don't  seem  able  to  agree.  Open  that  door,  Mrs.  Fogarty,  and 
ask  the  gentleman  to  walk  in." 

_  The  widow  arises  and  does  as  she  is  told,  and  for  the  first 
time  Cyrilla  starts  and  blanches.    For  there  enters  Fred  Carew! 

She  turns  blind  for  an  instant— blind,  faint,  sick.  All  her 
strength  seems  to  go.  She  jives  an  involuntary  gasp,  her  eyes 
dilate,  she  grasps  a  chair-back  for  suppoit;  then  she  sees  the 
exultant  laces  of  her  enemies,  and  she  rallies  to  the  strife  again, 
i\o,  no,  no  !  they  shall  not  exult  in  her  fall. 

I''«ed  Carew  advances  to  the  side  of  the  bed,  nearest  the 
do;,i.  C3rilla  stands  directly  opposite.  He  looks  at  her,  but 
iicr  e)es  are  ui)on  her  aunt.  He  nods  oldly  to  Mrs.  Fogarty, 
and  atldresses  himself  to  the  mistress  of  the  house  : 


V 


i  '-.i 


'*  GOOD-BYE,  sweetheart:' 


*vill  give  you 
my  solemn 

yes.     Prove 
prove  them 

,  turning  to 
loiii  to  meet 
5he  admits," 
r  house  and 
Miss  Jones, 
,  and  riding 
all  else  she 
is  not  Iicr 
is  to  marry 
vm  1  to  be- 
ldam," says 
L  delijjenUe 
ing  it.    She 
McKel|iiii 
e\v  as  Mrs. 
11  cnlcr  the 
)ld  nie  they 

you  to  say 

it  is  false  ! 

"  since  we 
^garty,  and 

ar  tlie  first 
"cd  Carew ! 
c.  All  her 
|),  her  eyes 
le  sees  liie 
trife  ai^ain. 

learest  the 
at  her,  but 
s.  lAjgarly, 


243 


''You  sent  for  me,  madam  ?  "  he  briefly  says. 

She  looks  at  him— a  strange  expression  on  her  face  "  I  ini 
going  to  see  a  ghost,"  she  had  said  to  her  niece.  Surely  il  is 
like  seeing  a  ghost  to  see  another  Frederick  Carew,  with  the 
same  blood  m  his  veins,  the  same  look  in  his  eyes,  at  her  bed- 
side after  hve-and-twenty  years. 

The  old  smoldering  wrong  seems  to  blaze  up  afresh  from  its 
uhite  ashes  !  As  in  that  (listant  time  she  hated  and  cursed  the 
father,  so  now  she  has  ,t  in  her  heart  to  hate  and  curse  the  son 
i  sent  for  you,  sir,'  she  answers,  "to  settle  a  very  vexed 
(luestion.  A  simple  yes  or  no  will  do  it,  for  you  are  an  officer 
and  a  gentleman,  with  noble  blood  in  your  veins-  the  blood  of 
the  Carews-incapable  of  deceiving  a  poor,  weak  woman."  Oh  I 
avsTr  r     Tf  "^'^Yf^^  '"^^'^-^  i"  --yes  and  voice  as  she 

VHIh  Tf  ^T-^t^^^^'  ""^^^^•      "-fl  i^  only  this-is  my  niece, 
C>iilla  Ilendnck,  your  wife,  or  not  ?" 

He  looks  across  the  bed  and  their  eyes  meet 
"For  heaven's   sake,   Fred,  say  no  ! "    her  eager,  im-plorin- 
ghnce   says     ;'Tell   the  truth,   Cyrilla !  "  his  con  mai  d^i  > 
'    .Ti"^  ^;    ,     \1'  "Y  ''^''  •  "  ^h-'^'-  softening  look  adds. 

Sn.nb  ?  u,  ^T'^'  ^''"^  ^"^'■^''''>'  5  "don't  look  at  her 

fcpcak  lor  yourself !  is  she  your  wife  or  not  ?  " 

'•  1    decline  to  answer  so  extraordinary  a  question,"  Fred 
says   coolly.      «'  If  I  had  known  your  object  in  sending'for  me 
M  iss  Dormer,  I  would  not  have  come." 

"  Do  you  deny  that  she  is  ?  " 

drirw'!'"'^',i"^"/'"^'~^f^""  "°^^'"'S-     Whatever  Miss  Hen- 
(Irick  says,  that  1  admit." 

''She  is  Miss  Hendrick,  then— you  own  that?" 
uV-u^'"'  "^"^^'''  ^it-^^^'-d  h^^r  called  anything  else,'  matlam." 
\Vi    you  speak,  or  will  you  not !  "  cries  Miss  Dormer,  in  a 

M       V   ';'  ^''"  '"^'  "'V^''''''  l^"«l^^"ti  ?     Did  she  live  with  you 
in  New  York  as  your  wife  ?  "  ^ 

He  folds  his  arms  and  stands  silent. 

"And  silence  gives  assent,"  says  the  spiteful  voice  of  Miss 

nZ^Zf\  f  ■  "  ^i""'  ?"  ^^'''  ^"'■"''^'■-     "  ^  ^"^  a  dying  wo- 
man,  and  1  demand   to  know  the  truth.     What  is  my  niece  to 

-  My  very  dear  friend.     More,  I  positively  refuse  (o  say." 
^yrilla!      the  old  woman  almost  shrieks,   "he    will    not 

£d7Jri      f\    ^^'""'   ""^''"^'''  ^"^  rei)eatwhat  you  have 
already  said.     Is  that  man  your  husband  or  not  1 " 


244 


^'GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEARr:' 


m 


Tlie  agony  of  that  moment !  There  are  drops  on  Cyrilla's 
face— cold,  clammy  drops.  A  rope  seems  to  be  tightening 
around  her  neck  and  strangling  her.  Across  the  bed,  Fred  Ca- 
rew's  eyes  are  sternly  fixed  on  her  changing  face. 

"  Speak  !  "  her  aunt  screams,  mad  and  furious. 

"He— is  not!" 

"  You  never  lived  with  him  in  New  York  as  his  wife  ?" 

"  I  did  not." 

"  You  are  not  married  to  him,  and  never  will  be." 

•*  I  am  not,  and  never  will  be." 

"Swear  it !  "cries  the  sick  woman,  frenzied  with  excitement. 

Your  word  wdl  not  suffice.     I   must  have  your  oath  "     She 

flings  open  the  Bible  at  the  Gospels.     "  Laj  your  hand'on  du's 

l)()(jk  and  say  after  me  !      I  swear  that  Frederic  Carew  is  not 

my  husband,  and  never  will  be,  so  heli)  me  God  !  " 

She  lays  her  hand  on  the  book— blindly,  for  she  cannot  see 
A  red  mist  fills  the  room  and  blots  out  every  fiice  excei)!  one 
—the    one    across    the  bed,    that   looks   like    the    face    of    an 
avenging  angel— the  face  of  the  husband  she  loves  and  is  for- 
swearmg. 

"  Speak  the  words,"   cried  Miss  Dormer :  "  '  I   swear  that 
Irederic  Carew  is  not  my  husband ' — begin  !  " 

Oh!  the  terrific,  ghastly  silence.  The' two  women  have 
arisen,  and  stand  pale  and  breathless. 

"  1  swear— that  Frederic  Carew— is " 

Her  face,  the  livid  hue  of  death  a  second  before,  turns  of 
a  deep  dull  red,  the  cord  around    her  throat,  stranglin<>-    her 
all   at  once  loosens,  and  she  falls  headlong  across  her°aunt's 
bed. 

"She  has  been  saved  from  perjury,"  says  the  sombre  voice 
ot  iMiss  Jones. 

Fred  Carew  is  by  her  side  as  she  foils.  He  lifts  her  in  his 
arms  and  carries  her  out  of  the  room.  Old  Joanna  is  without 
in  the  passage,  and  recoils  at  the  signt  of  the  younir  man's  stonv 
face  and  the  burdc  bears.  " 

"  Take  her  up  t  aer  room,"  she  says,  and  leads  the  way. 
"  Poor  dear,  has  she  fainted  ?  "  ^ 

Cyrilla  has  not  fainted— vertigo,  congestion,  whatever  it  may 
be  bhe  IS  conscious  of  who  carries  her  ;  knows  when  she  is 
laid  upon  her  bed,  in  a  dull,  painless,  far-off  way.  She  tries  to 
open  her  eyes ;  the  eyelids  only  flutter,  but  he  sees  it.  His 
face  touches  hers  for  a  second. 

"  Good-bye— good  b}e  !  "  he  says. 


on  Cyrilla's 

■   tightening 
d,  I'rcd  Ca- 


*'0///    THE  LEES  ARE  BITTER,  BITTERN  245 

Then,  still  in  that  dulled,  far-off  way,  she  knows  that  he  has 
left  her ;  she  hears  the  house  door  open  and  shut,  and  feels, 
through  all  her  torpor,  that  for  the  first  and  last  time  in  his  life, 
Fred  Carevv  has  crossed  Miss  Dormer's  threshold. 


irife  ? ' 


excitement, 
jath."  She 
land  on  this 
arew  is  not 

an  not  see. 
except  one 
'ace  of  an 
5  and  is  for- 
swear that 
)men  have 


e,  turns  of 

igling    her, 

her  aunt's 


nbre 


voice 


her  in   his 

is  without 

lan's  stony 

5  the  way. 

/er  it  may 
hen  she  is 
he  tries  to 
3  it.     His 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

"  OH  !   THE   LEES   ARE    BITFER,    BITTER." 

piE  lies  there  for  the  remainder  of  the  day,  while  the 
rose  light  of  the  sunset  fades  out,  and  the  i)ale  i)rim- 
rose  afterglow  comes.  The  moon  rises,  and  her 
pearly  lustre  mingles  in  the  sky  with  the  pink  flush  of 
that  May  sunset.  The  house  door  has  opened  and  shut  a^ain 
and  again,  while  she  lies  mutely  there,  and  she  knows  that*her 
triumphant  enemies  have  gone,  that  Dr.  Foster  lias  come,  for 
it  is  his  heavy  step  that  ascends  the  stairs  now. 

A  torpor,  that  is  without  pain  or  tears,  or  sorrow  or  remorse 
fills  her,  and  holds  her  spell-bound  in  her  bed.  Her  large, 
black,  melancholy  eyes  are  wide  open,  and  stare  blankly  out  of 
the  curtainless  windows,  as  she  lies,  her  hands  clasped  over  her 
head.  She  can  see  the  myriad  city  roofs,  sparkling  in  the  crys- 
tal light  of  moonrise  and  sunset,  a  dozen  shining  crosses  pierc- 
ing the  blue  heaven,  which  she  feels  she  will  never  see.  As  she 
gazes  at  them  dreaniily,  the  bell  of  a  large  building  near 
clashes  out  in  the  quivering  opal  air.  It  is  a  convent,  and  the 
bell  is  the  bell  of  (he  evening  Angelus.  Low  odd  to  think  that 
there  are  people  about  her,  scores  and  scores  of  people  who 
can  kneel  before  consecrated  altars,  with  no  black  and  deadly 
sins  to  stand  between  them  and  the  holy  and  awful  face  of  Cod. 
y\n(l  now  it  is  night.  All  the  little  pink  clouds  have  faded  in 
pallid  gray,  and  tlie  clustering  stars  shine  dcnvn  upon  Montreal. 
How  still  the  house  is.  Are  they  both  dead— her  aunt  and 
Joanna?  No!  While  she  thinks;  it,  Joanna  comes  in  with  a 
cup  of  tea  and  a  slice  of  toast. 

"Better,  miss?"  says  the  old  servant,  interrogatively. 
"  Would  have  c(jme  sooner.  Could  not  get  away.  Waiting  on 
her.^     Very  low  to-night.     Eat  something,  miss." 

Cyrilla  drinks  her  tea  thirstily,  and  makes  an  effort  to  gef 


i 


240        ««(3///    THE  LEES  ARE  BITTER,  BITTER» 


ill 


up.     It  is  ;i  railurc— thiM-e  is  soinetliing  the  matter  with  hei 
head  ;  she  fall:.  hea\ily  back. 

"  l,i<' slill,  miss,  Vou  look  gaslily.  I'll  stay  with  her  to- 
iuk'h.  Have  a  sleep,  miss."  And  old  Joamia  takes  her  tray 
and  unloiiehcd  toast,  and  L;oes. 

So  she  lies.  Presently  the  hi^;h  bright  stars  and  the  twinklin-i- 
city  lights  iatle  away  in  tlarkness.  There  is  a  lung  blank— then 
all  at  once,  without  sound  of  any  kind,  she  awakes  and  sits  up 
in  bed,  her  heart  beating  fast.  Some  one  is  in  her  room,  and 
a  light  IS  burning.  It  is  old  Joanna,  standing  at  her  bedside, 
shadnig  a  lamp  with  her  hand. 
"  She's  gone,  miss,"  says  Joanna. 

"  (;one  !  "  Cyrilla  repeats  vaguely  ;  "  who  ?  Gone  where  ?  " 
«' Yes— where  ?— I'd  like  to  know,"  .says  Joanna,  starin^ 
blankly  fur  miormation  at  the  papered  wall.  "The  Lord 
knows,^  /  don't.  I5ut  she's  gone.  Went  half-an-hour  ago. 
rour  o'clock  to  a  miimte.  The  cocks  begun  to  crow,  and  she 
nz  right  up  with  a  screech,  and  went." 

The  gii  1   sits   staring  at  her— her  great   black  eyes  lookini; 
wild  and  spectral  in  her  white  foce. 

"All  night  long  she  talked,"  jjursued  Joanna;  "talked— 
talked  stiddy.  It  was  wearin'  to  listen.  About  luigland  and 
the  tune  when  she  was  young,  I  reckon,  and  Frederic  Carew 
and  Donald  i\IcKeli)in,  and  her  wild  brother  Jack.  That's 
what  she  called  him.  And  she  talked  it  out  crazy  and  loud 
like,  else  I  wouldn't  a-heerd  her.  It  was  awful  wearin'.  Then 
she  A'as  quiet.  Kind  o'  dozin'.  1  was  dozin'  myself.  For  it 
was  -irry  wearin'.  Then  the  cocks  crowed  for  mornin'.  Then 
she  nz  right  up  with  that  screech,  and  went.  AVill  you  come, 
miss?     It's  wearin'  there  alone." 

Cyrilla  rises  and  goes.  The  house  is  so  still — so  deathly  still 
that  their  footsteps  echo  loudly  as  they  walk.  The  shaded  lamp 
still  burns  m  Miss  Dormer's  room,  and  on  the  bed,  stark  and 
rigid,  with  wide-open,  glassy  eyes  and  ghastly  falltn  jaw,  Miss 
Dormer  lies— the  "rich  Miss  Dormer."  Lonely,  loveless  and 
unholy  has  been  her  life— lonely,  loveless  and  unholy  has  been 
her  death.  Even  old  Joanna,  not  easily  moved,  turns  away  with 
a  creeping  feeling  of  repulsion  from  this  grisly  sight. 

"  She  won't  make  a  h.andsome  corpse,  poor  thing,"  remarks 
Joanna,  holding  up  the  lamp,  and  eyeing  her  critically,  as  if  she 
had  been  waxwork  ;  "but  I  supj)ose\ve  must  lay  her  <v,!t  Wc 
must  shut  her  eyes  and  put  pennies  on  'em.  And  wash  her!! 
And  mal-e  a  shroud,  and  straight  her  out.     And " 


:r  with   hci 

ith   her  to- 
L's  her  tray 

e  twinkling 
lank — then 
\m\  sits  up 
room,  and 
:r  bedside, 


e  where  ?  " 

la,  staring 
'I"hc  J,ord 
■honr  ago. 
V,  and  slie 

es  looking 

"  talked— 
gland  and 
ric  Carew 
.  That's 
and  loud 
ii'.  'J'hen 
If.  For  it 
y.  'I'heu 
ou  come, 

-■athly  still 
ided  lamp 
stark  and 
jaw,  Miss 
eless  and 
has  been 
ivvay  with 

'  remarks 
,  as  if  she 
nit.  We 
'ash    her. 


I 


"O//!    THE  LEES  ARE  BITTER,  PITTERr         2.]  7 

"I  cannot  I"  the  girl  cries  out,  turning  away,  deathly  sick, 
'*it  would  kill  me  to  touch  her.  You  must  go  for  sonie'  one  or 
else  wait  until  some  one  comes." 

lUit  Joanna  does  neither.  Dead  or  alive,  she  is  not  afraid  of 
Miss  Dormer.  She  goes  phlegmatically  to  work  and  does  all 
herself,  while  Cyrilla  sits  or  rather  crouches  in  a  corner,  her 
folded  arms  resting  on  the  window-sill,  her  face  lying  upon  them. 
She  has  stood  face  to  face  with  death  before,  calmly  and  un- 
moved, but  never — oh  !  never  with  death  like  this.  So—when 
morning,  lovely,  sunlit,  Heaven-sent,  shines  down  upon  the  world 
again,  it  finds  them.  The  sun  Hoods  the  chamber  with  its  glad 
light,  until  old  Joanna  impatiently  jerks  down  the  blinds  in  its 
face.  On  her  bed  Miss  Dormer  lies,  her  ghastly  eyeballs 
crowned  with  coin  of  the  realm,  her  skeleton  arms  stretched 
stiffly  out  by  her  sides,  but  the  mouth  is  still  open,  the  jaw  still 
fallen,  in  spite  of  the  white  bandage. 

"  I  knowed  it,"  Joannna  observes,  with  a  depressed  shake  of 
her  ancient  head,  stepping  back  to  eye  her  v;ork.  "  You  catit 
make  a  handsome  corpse  of  her,  let  you  do  ever  so." 

Then  her  eye  wanders  from  the  dead  aunt  to  the  living  niece. 

"You  ain't  no  use  here,  miss,"  she  says,  yvith  asperity. 
"  You'd  better  come  down  with  me  to  the  kitchen,  and  I'll  make 
you  a  cup  'o  strong  tea.     It's  been  a  wearin'  night." 

They  descend,  and  the  strong  tea  is  made  and  drank,  and 
does  Cyrilla  good.  Joanna  bustles  about  her  morning  duties. 
At  nine  o'clock  Doctor  Foster  knocks,  is  admitted,  hears  what 
he  ex[)ects  to  hear,  that  his  work  is  finished,  and  his  patient  has 
taken  a  journey,  in  the  darkness  of  the  early  dawn,  from  this 
world  to  the  next. 

After  that,  many  people,  it  seems  to  Cyrilla,  come  and  go — 
come  to  look  at  the  rich  Miss  Dormer  in  death,  who  would 
never  have  crossed  that  doorway  in  her  life.  Mrs.  Fogarly  and 
Miss  Jones  come  with  the  rest.  She  sees  them  from  lier  bed- 
room window,  but  she  is  conscious  of  no  feeling  of  anger  or 
resentment  at  the  sight.  All  that  is  dead  and  gone — gone  for- 
ever— with  hope,  and  love,  and  ambition,  and  daring,  and  all 
the  plans  of  her  life.  Only  a  day  or  two  ago — a  day  or  two  !  it 
seems  a  lifetime  !  She  keeps  her  room  through  it  all,  stealing 
down  to  the  kitchen  now  and  then,  through  the  startling  still- 
ness of  the  house,  for  the  strong  tea  or  coffee  on  which  she 
lives.  No  one  sees  her,  thougii  dozens  come  with  no  other  ob- 
ject. Vox  the  story — her  story — is  over  the  city.  Mysterious 
hints  of  it  are  thrown  out  in  the  morning  papers ;  it  is  the  chit- 


; 


I;- 


m- 


248 


"  0///     nm  LEES  ARE   niTTER,  n.'TTERr 


rliat  of  liariack  and  houdoir,  mess-table  and  drawin-'-roo-n 
JSoilimg  ,},utc  so  roin:uuic  and  excitin'^  has  evc-r  before  hii). 
[.cned  in  their  midst,  and  Mrs.  I-\)gaity\vnd  Miss  Jones  awalle 
and  find  themselves  famous.  The  heroine  keeps  lierself  shut 
lip,  ashanied  of  herself,  very  properly;  the  hero  is  invisible, 
too.  And  iiow  has  Miss  Dormer  left  her  money  !  That  is  the 
(luestion  that  most  of  all  exercises  their  exercisetl  minds 

Ihe  day  of  the  funeral  comes,  and  Miss  Dormer,  in  her  cof- 
hn,  goes  out,  for  the  first  time  in  years,  through  her  own  front 
gates.  It  IS  quite  a  lengthy  and  eminently  respectable  array  of 
carnages  that  follow  the  wealthy  lady  to  her  grave. 

"  I  am  the  Rcsurrertion  and  the  J.ife.     He  tliat  believeth  in 
Afe   although  he  be  dead,  shall  live  ;  and  every  one  that  liveth 
and  beheveth  in  Me,  shall  not  die  forever  ! "  says  the  reverend 
gentleman   m  the  white  bands  who  ofliciates,  and   they  lower 
Miss  Dormer  into  her  last  narrow  home,  and  the  clay  goes  rat- 
tling down  on  the  coffin  lid.      It  is  a  wet  and  windv  liy '•   the 
cemetery  looks  desolation    itself-a  damp  and  uncomfortable 
place    in  which  to  ta!      up  one's  abode.      The  sexton   (lin-rs 
Ml  Ihe  clods,  and  no  tears  are  shed  and    no   sorrow  is    feft 
1  hey  are  glad  to  get  back  to  the  shelter  of  their  carriages   and 
inen  laugh  and  crack  j.kesr.bont  Tred  Carew  and  the  dead 
wonian's  niece  all  the  way  home. 

The  dead  woman's  niece  has  not  gone  to  the  funeral.     Old 
Joanna  a  one  represents  the  household.     The  doctor  is  there 
and  the   lawyer  is  there,  for  they  expect  ample   fees  for  their 
pams  presently  ;   but  the  dead  woman's  niece  expects  nothin-r 
She  sits  in  her  onely  room  ;  a  lost  feeling  that  something  has 
gone  wrong  with  herheac'.  ever  since  that  cord  snapped  around 
her  throat  and  she  fell  across  her  aunt's  bed-hJr  principal 
tteling.     She  puts  her  hand  to  it  in  a  forlorn,  weary  w!iy   won- 
dermg  why  ,t  feels  so  oddly  hollow,  as  if  the   thinking  inachine 
mside  had  run   down,  and  the  key  was  lost.     She   suffers  no 
acute  pain,  either  mental  or  physical,  only  she  seems  to  have 
lost  the  power  both  to  sleep  or  eat,  and  does  not  feel  the  need 
ot  either.      1  here  is   a  tiresome,  ceaseless   sense  of  achin-r  at 
her  heart,  too;  a  blunted  sense  of  misery  and  loss,  that  never 
tor  a  moment  leaves  her.     She  plucks  at  it  sometimes,  as  if  to 
j. luck  away  the  intolerable  gnawing ;  but  it  goes  on  and  on, 
like  the  endless  torture  of  a  lost  soul.  ' 

Mr.  Pomi^et,  the  Jiivvyer,  has  come  to  look  after  bonds  and 
mortgages,  receipts,  bank  accoimts  and  papers  of  value  to  re- 
move them  to  his  own  safe,  until  the  arrival  of  Mr.  McKelpin 


\ 


**Orn    THE  LEES  ARE  nfTTER,  DTTTER:' 


:49 


k'lng-rooMi 
L'fore  III]), 
lies  awake; 
rrself  shut 
invisible, 
riiat  is  the 
ids. 

n  her  cof- 
own  front 
c  array  of 

:h"L'velh  in 
hat  Uvcth 

reverend 
Iicy  lower 

goes  rat- 
clay  ;  the 
iiifortabic 
on  (li Ill's 
'  is  felt, 
igc's,  and 
the  (lead 

al.  Old 
is  there, 
for  their 
nothing, 
hing  has 
1  around 
principal 
ay,  woii- 
niachine 
jft'ers  no 
to  have 
lie  need 
ching  at 
t  never 
as  if  to 
and  on, 

ids  and 
',  to  re- 
;Kelpia 


\ 


U 


He  is  engaged  in  this  work  when  the  door  of  the  room  opens, 
and  a  I'igure  comes  gliding  toward  him — a  figure  with  a  face  so 
white,  eyes  so  black,  and  weird,  and  large  ;  that,  albeit  not  a 
nervous  man,  Mr.  I'ompet  <\xo\y->  the  deed  he  holds  and  starts 
up  with  a  still'-'d  ejaculation.     It  is  the  dead  woman's  niece. 

*'  Don't  let  me  disturb  you."  The  weird,  dark  eyes  look  at 
him — -tlu;  faint,  tiretl  voice  speaks.  "  I  will  only  remain  a  mo- 
ment.    You  are  the  lawyer  who  made  Miss  Dormer's  will  ?" 

"Yes,  miss — I   mean  Mrs. "     Here  Mr.    Pompet  comes 

to  a  dead  lock.  He  has  heard  so  much  about  Miss  Hendrick 
being  Mrs.  Carew,  that  he  is  at  a  loss  how  to  address  her. 

"  1  an)  Miss  Dormer's  niece.  Will  you  tell  me  how  she  has 
left  her  money?"  He  looked  at  her  com|)assionately — how 
wretchedly  ill  the  |)oor  girl  is  looking,  he  thinks.  A  handsome 
girl,  too,  in  spite  of  her  pallor  and  wild  looking  eyes — Lieutenant 
Carew  has  had  taste.  "■  Has  Mr.  McKelpin  got  it  all?  Don't 
1h'  afraid  to  tell  me,  or — am  1  reuiembcred  ?  " 

"  Except  a  small  becpiest  of  one  hundred  dollars  to  her  ser- 
vant Joanna,  Mr.  McKelpin  has  it  all,"  answers  the  lawyer. 

"  1  am  not  even  mentioned  in  her  will  ?  " 

Again  Mr.  Pompet  is  silent — again  he  looks  embarrassed 
and  compassionate. 

"  Please  answer,"  she  says,  wearily.    "I  would  rather  know." 

**  You  are  mentioned  then,  but  only  to  say  she  has  disin- 
herited you  for  your  falsehood  and  deceit,  and  to  warn  Mr. 
Al(  Kelpin  in  no  case  to  aid  or  help  you." 

She  bends  her  head  with  the  old  graceful  motion. 

**  Thank  you,"  she  says,  and  goes. 

So  it  is  over,  and  she  knows  the  worst — it  is  only  what  she 
has  known  ail  along,  the  lawyer  has  but  made  assurance  doubly 
sure.  In  striving  to  keep  love  and  fortune  she  has  lost  both. 
She  has  lost  all,  good  r.ame,  lover,  home,  wealth,  everything  she 
has  held  most  dear.  And  her  own  falsehood  has  done  it  all. 
If  she  had  been  honest  and  dealt  fairly  by  her  aunt,  she  would 
at  least,  as  Donald  McKelpin's  wife,  have  been  a  rich  woman. 
If  she  had  been  honest  and  dealt  fairly*  by  Fred  Carew,  she 
would  have  had  his  love  and  presence  to  comfort  her.  15ut 
she  has  lost  both.  Truly,  even  for  the  children  of  this  woild, 
honesty  is  the  best  policy — truly,  also,  the  way  of  the  transgres- 
sor is  hard,  and  the  wages  of  sin  is  death. 

Another  night  falls  upon  the:  ionesoiue,  dark  old  house,  an- 
odier  ghostly,  hushed   sleepless  night.      She  lies   through  the 
long,  black,  dragging  hours,  and  listens  to  the  rain  pattering 
n* 


V- 


■|i. 


r 


250         «•  Oil!    THE  LEES  ARE  D/TTEh',  BI rTER» 

on  the  glass,  and  the  winrl  blowinj.^  about  the  gables.  "  Blessed 
is  Uie  corpse  that  the  rain  rains  on,"  says  the  cliiklren's  rhynjc. 
'i'iie  ruin  is  bcatiiij^r  on  Aunt  Dunnei's  grave — is  Aunt  Dormer 
blessutl  ?  hlie  woiulcrh. 

Again  it  is  morning— another  gray,  wet  morning.  In  the 
early  d'wn,  sleep  reluctantly  comes  to  her,  and  with  sleep 
dreams.  'J'he  sleeping  is  more  cruel  than  the  waking,  for  she 
dreams  of  her  husl)and.  She  is  back  with  him  in  New  York, 
living  over  again  tiiat  one  bright  honeymoon  week— that  week 
that  will  stand  out  from  all  the  other  weeks  of  her  life.  With  a 
a  smile  on  her  lips  she  awakens,  and  then  a  moment  after  there 
is  a  desolate  cry.  Foi  the  truth  has  come  back  to  her  with  a 
pain  shari)er  than  the  pain  of  death.  She  has  heard  nothing  of 
him  or  from  him  since  their  parting — she  never  will  again— 
that  she  knows.  That  whispered  'good-bye'  was  for  all  lime. 
Why  should  she  expect  otherwise?  In  the  Aice  of  all  she 
denied  him— fi.-rswore  him.  What  coidd  he  have  left  but  scorn 
and  contempt  for  her.  It  never  occurs  to  her  to  think  of  see- 
ing or  hearing  from  him  again.  Her  sentence  is  i)assed~its 
justice  she  does  not  disinite. 

That  forenoon  brings  a  telegram  from  Mr.  McKelpin.  He 
has  landed  at  Quebec — by  to-morrow  he  will  be  in  Montreal. 
Her  brief  respite  is  at  an  end — she  nuist  h  ip  and  doing  now. 
She  has  no  rigiit  in  Donald  3lclvelpin'.  house.  He  is  an 
nonest  man,  and  she  has  betrayetl  liim.  She  has  no  intention 
of  allowing  him  to  lind  her  'here— by  to-morrow  morning's 
early  train  she  will  go. 

She  will  go— but  where?  In  all  the  worid  she  has  neither 
home  nor  friends.  She  thinks  of  Sydney,  good  little,  loyal 
Sydney— but  Sydney  is  far  away.  Slill  she  has  her  plans,  in 
the  long  watches  of  the  night  she  has  made  up  her  mind  to  go 
to  New  York.  Why,  she  does  not  know  ;  only  in  a  great  city  it 
IS  so  easy  to  lose  one's  self,  to  die  to  all  one  has  ever  known. 
IV-rhaps  there  she  will  get  rid  of  this  gnawing,  miserable  pain  at 
her  heart ;  perhaps  there,  her  wandering  brain  may  feel  as  it 
used.  And  she  has  been  so  hajjpy  there— so  hapi)y.  She  will  go 
back,  and  walk  in  the  places  where  they  used  to  walk  together, 
as  Kve  may  have  come  back  and  looked  over  the  "closed 
gates  of  Eden.  And  then— well,  then,  perhaps,  there  may  be 
mercy  for  her,  and  she  may  die.  She  is  of  no  use  in  the  world, 
ot  no  use  to  anv  one — she  is  a  wicked  wretrh.  jsf  when  the 
earth  will  be  well  rid—"  a  sinner  viler  than  them  all."  People 
die  eve-y  day,  every  hour  ;  why  sliould  not  she? 


f 


I. 


"  Hlosscd 
I's  rhyme. 
L  Dormer 

In  the 
■itli  sleei) 
g,  for  she 
L'W  York, 
hat  week. 
.  With  a 
fter  there 
ler  with  a 
othiiig  of 
again- 
all  time, 
f  all  she 
)tlt  scorn 
ik  of  scc- 
sseil- — its 

y\n.  He 
lontrcal. 
ing  now. 
le  is  an 
intention 
lorning's 

i  neither 
tie,  loyal 
ans.  In 
id  to  go 
:at  city  it 
•  known, 
e  [)ain  at 
eel  as  it 
e  will  go 
:ogctlicr, 
e  closed 
may  be 
le  world, 


^ 


"O///  T///C  LEi:s  ARE  DirTKR,  Bnri.n:'      251 

Tomorrow  morning  comes.  She  has  packed  her  trunk  and 
her  little  hand-hiig.  ( >ld  Joanna  lei'  hes  her  a  hack,  and  she 
l)iits  on  her  hi',  and  holds  ont  her  hauW  and  saysgood-b)!-  to  the 
old  creature  mechanically,  and  tells  her  (when  asked)  that  she 
is  going  to  New  York.  She  ni-vcr  once  lifts  her  heavy  eyes  to 
take  a  last  look  at  the  gloomy  red  brick  house  as  the  hack  bears 
her  away. 

She  has  some  money— not  nmrh,  but  enough.  Since  their 
marriage  I'Ved  has  n)ade  her  hl^,  banker.  It  will  take  her  to 
New  York— after  that,  it  doesn't  matter  what  happens. 

.She  is  in  the  cars.  She  lays  her  head  with  a  tired  out  feeling 
against  the  window,  and  closes  her  eyes.  They  are  llyii  "  along 
in  the  warm  June  morning,  and  thoughts  of  the  last  tmie  she 
made  this  journey,  not  yet  a  month  ago,  drift  vaguely  through 
her  imnd.  She  never  looks  up  or  out.  Her  forehead  is  rest- 
ing against  the  cool  glass— it  feels  to  her  like  a  friendly  hand  ; 
and  so,  dead  to  all  about  her,  dead  to  herself,  to  everything  that 
makes  life  dear,  Cyrilla  drifts  out  of  the  old  life— whither,  she 
neither  knows  nor  cares. 


People 


# 


PART    SECOND. 


iii 

ffffill 


1 

1     ^■..   ; 

Mi 


CHAPTER  I. 

SYDNEY. 

"  Yet,  is  this  girl  I  sing  in  nauglit  uncommon, 
And  very  far  from  angel,  yet  I  trow 
Her  faults,  her  sweetnesses  are  i)urely  human. 
Ami  she's  more  lovable  as  simple  woman 
Than  any  one  diviner  that  I  know." 

WO  o'clock   of  a  cold  November  afternoon,  a  shrill 
rising  wind,  whistling   up   and   down  the   city  streets 
stripping  the  gaunt  brown  trees  of  their  last  sere  and 
yellow  leaf,  and  making  little  ripples  all  along  the  steely 
pools  of  water,  which  the  morning's  rain  has  left.     The  rain  has 
ceased  now,  but  a  gray,  fast-drifting  sky  yet  lowers  over  New 
York    ominously  suggestive  of  the  fust   wintry  foil  of  snow 
(Jmnibuses  rattle  up  and  omnibuses  rattle  down,  private  car- 
nages, all  aghtter  of  black  varnish,  prancing  horses  and  liveried 
coachmen  whirl  up  park-ward.     A  {i;w  ladies  trip  past  in  the 
directioii  of  Broadway,  a  few  beggar  children  creep  around  the 
areas.      Ihat  is  tlie  street  scene,  the  tall  young  lady  with  the 
fair  hair,  mourning  dress,  sits  and  looks  at  rather  listlesslv,  con- 
sidering that  more  than   four  years  have  elapsed  since  these 
blue-gray  eyes    looked  upon    it   before.      The  young  lady  is 
Miss  Sydney  Ow^nson,  newly  returned  from  a  five  years'  so- 
journ abroad,  and  domiciled  with  her  late  mother's  cousin   Mrs 
Macgrcgor,  of  Madison  Avenue.  ' 

Her  inother,  Mrs.  Owenson,  is  dead.  Except  these  cousins, 
bydncy  Owenson,  orphan  and  heiress,  stands  quite  alone  in  the 
wor  d.  Four  years  ago,  one  sunny  JNfay  day.  Captain  Owen- 
son  s  widow  and  only  child  left  New  York  for  Havre.  Four 
quiet  pleasant  years  followed  for  poor  badgered  Aunt  Ch-n- • 
more  quiet  and  pleasant  than  Aunt  CharNvould  ever  have 
owned  even  to  hcr.d*;.  with  no  terrible  marital  voice  to  ilumdei 


SYDNEY. 


253 


at  her  for  the  thousand  and  one  foolish  little  deeds  and  si)eeches 
of  everyday.  There  was  one  long  balmy  winter  in  Florence, 
another  in  Rome,  where  the  churches  and  i)icture  -^Mlleries,  (he 
delights  of  her  daughter's  heart,  nuide  her  head  ache,  and  where 
St.  Peter's  with  its  si)lendors  and  its  vastness,  and  its  majestic 
music  and  wondrously  beautiful  ceremonies,  nearly  tired  her 
to  death.  Physically,  mentally  and  morally,  Aimt  Char  was 
weak,  and  growing  weaker  every  day.  For  Sydney,  that  Roman 
wmter  was  one  long  dream  of  delight  ;  it  seemed  to  her  mother 
she  literally  lived  in  the  churches  and  picture  galleries.  The 
summers  were  spent  rambling  in  a  vagabond  sort  of  way  through 
Switzerland,  Germany  and  Bavaria.  The  fourth  winter  was 
spent  in  Paris,  and  in  that  city  Aunt  Char's  feeble  hold  on  life 
grew  weaker  and  weaker;  and  one  bleak  spring  m(>rning 
Sydney  awoke,  to  find  herself  an  orphan  indeed,  and  tliat  weak 
and  gentle  mother,  lying  with  folded  hands  and  placid  face  and 
life's  labor  done. 

Four  years  before,  on   that  December  morning  when  she 
knelt  down  by  her  dead  father's  bed,  •  ,ie  girl  had  been  a  child, 
a  very  child  in  heart  and  knowledge,  in  thought  and  feeling.  JJut 
with  that  day  her  childhood  seemed  to  cease,  and  womanhood 
to  dawn.     She  had  loved  her  feeble  little   mother  very  dearly, 
but  never— no  never— as  she   had  loved  her  faliier.    iw  those 
years  of  aimless  wandering  hers  ha     been  the  guiding  spirit,  hers 
the  ruling  voice.     To  rule  .was  not  in  Mrs.  Owenson's  nature- 
all  her  life  she  had  been  meekly  under  orders  until  its  very  last 
day.     Strong,  self-reliant,  fearless,  she  looked   upon   her    slim, 
stately  young  daugliter  with  wonder  and  admiration,  and  leaned 
upon  her  from  the  first  day  of  her  husband's  death.     That  by- 
gone tragedy  had  left  its  impress  upon  the  girl  for  life.     (Irave 
beyond  her  years,  with  a  gravity  most  people  found  very  charm- 
ing, thoughtful,  but  very  gentle  and  sweet,  her  seriousness  was 
an  added  witchery.    She  had  sliot  up  in  these  ye  ars,  siqiple  and 
tall,  healthful  and  handsome,  with  eyes  as  bright  as  these  south- 
ern skies  at  which  they  gazed,  a  comi)lexion  not  pale,  and  yet 
colorless,  and  a  fearless  frankness  of  manner,  that  her  unfettered, 
wandering  life  could  not  fail  to  give.      In  her  heart,   Iier  whole 
Vife  long,  she  would  mourn   for  the  father  she  had   so  dearly 
loved,  the  brother  who  was  to  have  been  her  husband  ;  but  her 
face  was  bright  as  the  sunshine  itself,  and  the  handsome  Amer- 
ican heiress  did  not  reach  her  twenty-first  birthday,  be  very  sure, 
without  more   than   one  manly  heart  and  hand  (more  or  less 
short  of  ready  money)  being  laid  at  her  shrine,  and  just  at  i)res- 


f; 


254 


SYDNEY. 


eiu  it  was  tlio  l)us  ness  of  the  Macgregor  family  to  discover 
whether  their  fair  and  rich  relative  had  brought  her  heart  home 
wirh  her,  or  had  left  that  useful  organ  behind  in  foreign  parts. 
She  had  been  witli  them  three  weeks  now,  and  the  discovery 
had  not  been  satisfactorily  made  yet,  and  Dick  Macgregor,  son 
of  the  house  and  graduate  of  West  Point,  was  growing  seriously 
anxious  on  the  subject. 

Miss  Owenson  had  remained  a  full  year  abroad  after  her 
mother's  death  with  some  Knglish  friends,  whose  acciuaintance 
slu'  had  nia<le  in  Paris.  These  friends  were  Sir  Harry  Leonard 
ami  his  sister,  a  maiden  lady  of  forty.  With  the  sister,  Miss 
Owenson  frankly  owned  to  having  fallen  in  love  at  sight — the 
brother,  Mrs.  Owenson  had  more  than  hinted  in  her  letters,  had 
done  precisely  the  same  widi  Sydney.  Sir  Harry  was  a  man  of 
thirty,  not  bad-looking,  and  rich  enough  in  Cornish  tin  mines  to 
l)ut  the  i)ossibility  of  mercenary  motives  entirely  out  of  the 
(^.-.estion.  Miss  Owenson  had  spent  many  months  following 
her  mother's  death  with  Miss  Leonard,  and  now  the  question 
arose,  was  Sydney  i\\c  Jia nee  of  Sir  Harry  Leonard?  Dick 
Macgregor,  his  mother,  and.  sister  revolved  this  question  in  all 
its  bearings  and  revolved  in  vain.  Sydney  was  serenely  silent 
on  all  these  tender  matters,  and  there  was  a  quiet  dignity  about 
her  that  forbade  questions.  Dick's  attentions  she  took  with  a 
cousinly  indifference  and  good  nature  that  was  exasperating  to 
a  degree. 

"  It  seems  a  pity  to  let  the  fortune — a  million,  if  a  dollar — 
go  out  of  the  fLunily,"  says  Mrs.  Macgregor,  knitting  her 
brows,  until  they  made  a  black  archway  over  her  lofty  Roman 
nose. 

"  If  she  were  to  marry  Dick,  I  needn't  sell  myself  to  that  fat 
beast,  old  Vanderdonck,"  says  Miss  Macgregor,  with  con- 
siderable asperity.  '*  One  of  us  must  marry  money  or  starve. 
Of  course  I  will  be  the  sacrifice,  though.  Old  Vanderdonck  is 
J  as  fond  of  me  as  it  is  ]iossible  for  him  to  be  of  anything,  except 
■  his  bank  account,  and  Sydney  is  about  as  much  in  love  with 
Dick  as  she  is  with  your  new  black  coachman,  mamma.  Who 
can  wonder,  thougli,  after  the  men  she  has  associated  with 
abroad,  and  it's  not  your  fliult,  I  suppose,  my  poor  Dick,  that 
you've  neither  brains  nor  beauty." 

"She's  engaged  to  the  baronet — that's  where  the  trouble  is," 
responds  Dick,  with  a  nlnmnv  trlnnrp  nf  hi«  ci«fp.r  ..r  fliofr 
Other  fellow — what's  his  name,  the  German  that  wanted  to 
marry  her  ?  American  girls  are  all  tarred  with  the  same  stick—' 


.f^- 


SYDNEY. 


255 


titk'"^  '"^'^'■'■>'*''*^  ^'^"c*^  himself,  horns  and  hoof,  if  he  only  had  a 

Of  this  family  conclave,  of  the  plots  and  plans  in  regard  to 
fier,  Miss  Uwensoh  was  most  supremely  unconscious.      Those 
bright  gray  eyes  c.  hers  would  have  opened  very  wide  indeed  if 
any  one  had  told  her  Dick  Macgregor  wanted  to  marrv  her— 
|not  only  vyanted  to  marry  her,  but  had  fallen  in  love  with  her 
bhe  would  stay  with  them  for  this  winter,  she  thought,  and  after 
that-but  the  "after  that"  was  not   quite   clear  in   Sydnev's 
mind.     Youth,  beauty,  many  friends,  two  or  three  lovers,  and 
great  wealth  are  hers ;  but  as  she  sits  here  to  day  and  looks  out 
at  the  bleak,  wmd-blown  street,  she  feels  lonely  and  sad  enough. 
1  he  Macgregors  are  relatives,  and  are  very  good  to  her  after 
tlieir  light,  but  their  house  is  not  home,  nor  even  like  the  Cor- 
nish home  that  was  hers  so  lately,  and  oh  !  so  unutterably  un- 
like the  dear  old  home  at  VVychcliffe  forever  lost  now.      This 
day  IS  an  anniversary— this  day  five  years  ago  was  the  day  be- 
tore  her  wedding— this  day  five  years  ago,  and  just  at  this  hour, 
sne  and  Lertie  Vaughan  stood  looking  out  at  the  whirling  snow. 
Again  she  sees  him  lying  back  in  his  chair,  that  moody  look  on 
us  blonde,  boyish  face  ;    again  she  hears  him  speak,  "  Who 
knows  what  may  happen  ?     In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death, 
and  all  that,  you  know."     His  words  had  been  prophetic.     Ah  » 
poor  liertie.     Looking  back  now,  with  the  knowledge  and  ex- 
perience of  five  years  added  upon  her,  Sydney  knows  that  as 
J^ertie  s  wife  she  would  have  been  a  supremely  wretched  woman. 
Looking  b-ck  now,  she  knows  he  was  weak  and  unstable  as 
water— iJiat  slie  would  have  outgrown  him,  and  that  they  would 
have^weaned  to  death  of  the  tie  that  bound  them.     She  knows 
that  .or  herself  and  her  own  hai)piness  it  is  infinitely  better  as 
It  IS.     Yet  none  the  less  does  she  regret  him,  none  the  less  does 
she  mourn  his  tragic  end.     The  mystery  of  that  night's  dis- 
ai)pearance  is  as  dense  a  mystery  as  ever ;  nothing  has  ever 
come  to  light— nothing,  it  is  probable  now,  ever  will.    Whether 
a  murder  was  done,  whether  an  accident  befell  him,  may  never 
be  discovered.     Of  late  years  Sydney  has  inclined  to  the  latter 
fe  let.     Lertie  had  no  enemies— not  one— and  just  there  an  ac- 
cident nnght  very  easily  befidl.      A  slip,  a  false  step,  and  the 
rising  tide  would  speedily  bear  away  all  traces. 

She  nses  from  her  reverie  with  a  sigh  to  the  memory  of  those 

pleosant  by-gnno  days,  and  goes  in  search  of  a  Look.     The 

•■<^('m  she  IS  m  is  called  a  library,  although  one  small  bookcase 

oiUs  all  Its  literature— the  Macgregors  are  not  a  reading  fani- 


fll 


256 


SYDNEY. 


ily.  Pirtiires  there  are  in  iirofusion — chromos  and  engravings 
mostly  ;  the  carpet  is  soft  and  rich,  the  curtains  are  elegant  and 
costly,  the  furniture  is  blue  silk  rep,  anc'  there  are  half-a-dozen 
lomv^ing  chairs.  How  Mrs.  Macgregor  furnishes  her  house, 
dresses  her  daughter,  keeps  her  carriage,  gives  her  (piantuin  of 
parties  in  the  season,  and  goes  everywhere,  is  a  conundrum 
several  families  on  the  avenue  are  interested  in  solving,  and 
cannot.  All  this  she  does  and  more.  Newport  and  Saratoga 
know  them  in  the  summer  solstice ;  their  seat  at  the  opera  and 
at  Wallack's  is  always  filled  ;  they  have  an  open  account  at 
Stewart's  and  another  at  TifTany's.  "And  how  on  earth  docs 
Mrs.  Macgregor  do  it,"  ask  the  avenue  faunlies,  "when  we  all 
know  how  John  Macgregor  left  her  nothing  but  the  house  sl.e 
lives  in  and  a  beggarly  two  thousand  a  year." 

Miss  Owenson  takes  down  a  book  at  random,  and  returns  to 
her  chair.  The  book  turns  out  to  be  "  Sintram,"  a  very  old 
friend,  and  a  very  great  favorite — one  that  will  bear  reading 
many  times,  and  the  closing  page  of  which  Sydney  has  never 
yet  reached  with  dry  eyes.  She  opens  near  the  middle  and  be- 
gins to  read,  and  soon  all  things,  all  cares  of  her  own,  the  very 
memory  of  her  own  life-sorrows,  are  lost  in  the  ideal  sorrows 
of  "  Sintram."  lirave,  temjjted,  noble,  forsaken,  her  heart  is 
with  him  through  all,  far  more  than  with  Sir  Folko,  stainless 
knight  and  happy  husband.  Her  eyes  are  dewy  as  she  reads 
lines  that  tell  poor,  tem[)ted,  sorrowing  Sintram'  that  his  trials 
are  almost  done. 


IIHP 

raisBlf' 


•'  Death  comes  td  set  thee  fice; 
Oh!  meet  liiin  cheerily, 

As  thy  true  friend  ; 
Then  all  thy  fears  shall  cease, 
And  in  eternal  peace 

Thy  penance  end  !  " 

"  Sydney,"  calls  a  voice,  the  clear,  fresh  voice  of  Katherine 
Macgregor.  Then  the  library  door  is  thrown  open  by  an  im- 
pctuous  gloved  hand,  and  Katherine  Macgregor,  in  stylish 
carriage  costume,  stately  as  her  name,  tall  and  elegant,  rustles 
in. 

"  What !  reading,"  she  exclaims,  and  not  dressed— and  it  is 
half-past  three,  and  we  promised  to  be  ready  at  three,  and  poor 
Uncle  (Irif  jiottering  about  the  drawing-room  wailing  for  the 
last  hour  ?  Oh  !  this  is  too  nnich  !  even  my  patience  has  ita 
limits.     What  is  that  you  have  got  hold  of  now  ?  " 


SYDNEY. 


257 


Without  ceremony  Miss  Macgregor  snatches  the  book,  and 
her  little,  piquant  nez  retrousse  curls  scornfully  as  she  glances 
at  the  title. 

"  Sintram  and  His  Companions  !  That  you  should  live  to  be 
two-and- twenty,  and  still  addicted  to  fairy  tales  !" 

"  It  isn't  a  fairy  tale,"  says  Miss  Owcnson,  laughing. 

*'  It  is  all  the  same — goblins  and  demons,  and  skeletons,  and 
death's  heads.  Ugh!  I  began  it  once  and  had  the  nightmare 
after  it.  How  any  one  can  read  such  rubbish,  with  dozens  of 
delicious  new  novels  out  every  day,  I  cannot  imagine." 

"Your  new  novels  are  the  rubbish,  judging  by  the  criticisms 
1  read  of  them.  One  Sintram,  wild,  pathetic,  old  legend  that 
it  is,  is  worth  the  whole  boiling " 

"  1  don't  care  for  pathetic  things,"  says  Miss  Katherine  Mac- 
gregor, shrugging  her  shoulders  ;  "  one's  daily  life  and  its  wor- 
ries are  as  pathetic  a  legend  as  /want  to  know  anything  about." 

Sydney  lifts  her  eyes  and  looks  at  her.  A  tall  brunetlc,  n(;t 
really  handsome,  but  making  the  most  of  herself,  of  a  fine  erect 
figure,  a  pair  of  sparkling  black  eyes,  and  set  of  very  white 
teeth.  Vivacity  is  becoming  to  Miss  Macgregor's  i)eculiar 
style,  consequently  Miss  Macgregor  is  channingly  vivacious 
and  high-spirited  everywhere  except — at  home.  Dull  i^arties 
"go  off"  with  Katie  Macgregor  to  the  fore;  heavy  dinners  are 
lightened  ;  very  young  men  fall  in  love  with  her  at  sight  ;  mar- 
ried men  are  invariabl)  smitten  when  they  sit  near  her.  She 
plays  the  i)iano  well,  waltzes  well,  dresses  in  excellent  taste,  sings 
a  little,  and  can  "  take  "  Broadway  of  a  sunny  afternoon,  with  a 
dash  and  elan  that  makes  every  masculine  head  turn  involuntarily 
to  look  again.  And  it  must  be  added  that  Miss  Macgregor's  face 
is  very  well  known  on  Broadway,  indeed,  better  and  longer  than 
she  hkes  to  think,  herself.  She  is  three  years  Sydney's  senior, 
and  as  she  came  out  at  sixteen,  the  ways  of  the  wicked  world 
are  as  a  twice  told  tale  to  Katherine  Macgregor,  and  Money  and 
Matrimony—"  the  two  capital  M's,"  as  her  brother  Dick  calls 
them — long  ago  became  the  leading  aims  of  her  life.  As  indeed 
of  what  well  regulated  youug  women  are  they  not  ? 

'■'You  worried,  Katie?"'  Sydney  says,  still  laughing;  "do 
my  ears  deceive  me?  Who  would  think  Katie  Macgregor, 
the  'Sunbeam  of  Mew  York,'  as  I  heard  poor  young  Van 
Cu)ler  call  you  last  night,  had  a  care." 

••  The  laughing  hyena  of  New  York  is  brother  Dick's  name 
for  it,  and  the  more  suUable  of  the  two,"  responds  Miss  Mac- 
gregor, rather  bitterly.    "  To  cat,  drink,  and  be  merry,  mamma 


i^ 


11 


858 


SYDNEY. 


\   .:l 


'^.1 


tf.M  ir.e  when  I  was  sixtccMi,  was  to  be  my  rdh  through  life — 
liiughtci"  is  bcconiini;,  yoii  know,  to  people  with  white  teeth 
and  black  eyes,  so  I  began  at  her  command,  and  have  gone  on 
ever  since.  It  has  become  second  nature  by  this  time,  but  to 
laugh  is  one  thin^^  to  be  hapi)y  another." 

"What  is  the  l  rouble,  tlear  ?  "  Sydney  asks;  "is  it  anything 
in  which  I  can  lul])  )ou  ?     If  so " 

"  Tlianks,  Syd — no,  you  cannot  help  me,  unless  you  can  in- 
duce somebody  to  leave  me  lifty  or  sixty  thousansl  dollars. 
Dol!  -rs,  the  great  want  of  the  world,  are  my  M'lint.  Wiih  thcp 
1  need  not  become  Mrs.  Cornelius  Vaaderdoiick — v/ithoit 
them  1  nuist." 

"  Katiu  !  Old  Mr.  Vanderdonck  !  Ill-tempered,  rheumatic, 
sixty  years  I     Yoi;  surely  do  not  dream  of  niairyin;^  him  ?  '' 

"  1  hurcly  do  — only  too  hai)py  and  thankfui  to  have  him  a.sk 
me.  I  am  tired,  tired  and  :s'ck,  Sydney,  of  the  life  we  lead, 
hand  to  mouth,  pincliing  her  ;,  and  saving  there  ;  servants  im- 
jiaid.  bills,  duns,  uianima  nearly  at  her  wits'  e.:d.  Oh  !  you 
don't  know  I  In  my  place  you  wciuld  1  c  as  ii.'orcenary  ar'd  I'.cart- 
less  as   I  am," 

"But  I  lliought,"  Sydney  says,  with  a  puzzled  k.  oL,  "  ihat 
.Aim,  Helen  was  rich?"  (Aunt  Helen  is  a  conve^vlent  term  for 
h.  r  ujolher's  cousin.)  "  if  money  matters  are  yjur  only  trouble, 
Katie,  wiiy  do  yoa  not  draw  on  me  ?  I  have  more  than  1  can 
possil'v  iLSL,  and  you  must  know,  Aunt  Helen  must  know,  that 
1  wouifi  be  oul)  too  glad " 

"  We  know  you  are  generosity  itself,  S}  (hiey,  dear,"  responds 
Miss  Macgregor,  still  with  that  touch  of  cvnicism  in  her  voice 
that  she  keeps  strictly  for  family  use,  "  but  even  you  might  grow 
weary  after  a  time  of  sujjporting  a  large  family  of  third  cousins. 
And  of  the  two  evils — marrying  sixty  years,  ill-temi)er,  and 
ugliness,  or  swindling  you  to  your  face,  I  really  think  1  prefer  the 
former.  But  this  is  all  a  waste  of  time."  Miss  Macgregor 
])ulls  at  her  watch.  "  Twenty  minutes  to  four  and  the  daylight 
waning  already,  and  Von  Ette's  studio  closes  invariably  at  tive. 
I  give  you  just  ten  minutes  to  dress,  Miss  Owenson.  The  car- 
riage is  already  at  the  door." 

"The  new  ])icture  !  1  had  forgotten  all  about  it!"  cries 
Miss  Owenson  starting  up.  "Ten  minutes  is  it,  Katie?  Very 
well — in  ten  minutes  1  will  be  ready." 

Strange  to  say.  Miss  Owi^nson  keeps  her  word.  Tn  ten 
minutes  she  descends,  a  seal  jacket  over  her  black  silk  dress,  a 
black  hat  wuh  a  long  black  plume  on  her  head,  and  her  fail 


SYDNEY. 


«S9 


oil  can  111- 


id  her  faii 


face  and  golden  hair,  very  fair  by  contrast.     Deep  mourninij 
Sydney  has  left  off,  colors  she  has  not  yet  assumed. 

"  Uncle  (Jrif  grew  tired  of  waiting,"  says  Miss  Macgregor,  as 
they  enter  the  carnage,  "and  toddled  off  by  himself  to  meet  us 
at  rhilippi — 1  mean  at  Von  Ktte's." 

"Who  is  this  Monsieur  Von  Ette?"  Sydney  asks.  "His 
name  is  new  to  nie." 

"The  name  is  ne^  to  us  all.  A  year  ago  Carl  Von  Ktt6 
was  a  beggar— literally  a  beggar  in  the  streets  of  New  York, 
hawking  his  own  pictures  from  door  to  door,  and  earning  a 
crust  and  a  garret.  One  day  he  fell  down  in  a  fainting  tit  in 
the  street,  from  sheer  starvation,  and  a  man  nearly  as  poor  as 
himself,  took  him  home,  nursed  him,  encouraged  him,  and  the 
result— Von  Ette  has  painted  a  picture  that  the  town  talks  of, 
and  is  on  the  high  road  to  fame  and  fortune." 

"And  his  friend —the  good  Samaritan — what  of  him  ?" 

Sydney's  eyes  glisten  as  she  asks  the  question.  Her  sym- 
l)alhetics  are  very  (juick — it  is  things  like  these  that  go  home 
to  her  heart.  For  Miss  Macgregor,  her  cynical  look  comes 
back. 

"  The  good  Samaritan  is  precisely  where  he  was — the  usual 
fate  of  good  Samaritans,  is  it  not? — ])lodding  along  in  a  lawyer's 
office.  Lewis  Nolan  may  be  the  cause  of  greatness  to  others, 
but  1  have  a  presentiment  he  will  never  be  great  himself.  He 
has  exploded  theories  about  honor  and  honesty,  that  kee])  men 
back.  Here  we  are.  Raise  your  dress,  Sydney.  These  stairs 
may  have  been  swept  during  the  last  ten  years,  but  I  doubt  it. 
Your  true  artist  is  a  dirty  creature,  or  nothing." 

She  lifts  her  glistening  silk  train  and  runs  lightly  up  the  stairs, 
her  vivacious  society  face  in  its  best  working  order.  Miss  Owen- 
son,  with  an  expression  of  extreme  distaste  for  the  dirty,  un- 
swept  stairs,  gathers  uj)  her  skirts  and  follows. 

"  Shall  we  see  the  artist,  Katie  ?  "  she  asks, 

"  No,  decidedly.  Von  Ette  is  a  perfect  miracle  of  ugliness — 
is  next  door  to  a  dwarf,  and  has  a  hump.  No  one  ever  enters 
his  studio  when  he  is  there  but  Uncle  Grif  and  Lewis  Nolan." 

"  The  good  Samaritian  !     Shall  we  see  //////  i  " 

They  have  reached  the  landing.  Miss  Macgregor  gives  her- 
self one  small  shake,  and  shakes  every  ribbon,  every  silken  fold 
into  its  place  in  a  second.  She  pauses  at  her  cousin's  question, 
and  looks  at  her  for  a  moment, 

"  Perhaps  !  "  she  answers,  slowly  ;  "  and  if  we  do,  I  want  you 
to  look  at  him  well  and  tell  me  what  you  think  of  him.     Lewis 


\r% 


26o 


*'S/Ar-yA\iJ/." 


Nolan  has  been  my  ])uz/.le  for  the  past  ten  years,  and  is  more 
my  piiz/le  to-day  than  ever.      Let  us  see  it  you  can  solve  it." 

She  taps  at  the  door,  opens  it,  and  the  two  yoimg  ladies  are 
in  the  studio. 


CHAPTER  II. 


SINTRAM. 


T  was  a  large  and  well-lighted  room,  the  floor  covered 
with  dark-red  wool  carpet,  the  walls  colored  of  some 
dull,  neutral  tint  and,  containing  by  way  of  furniture 
three  cpieer  spindle-legged,  old  fashioned  chairs. 
Three  or  four  ladies  and  as  many  men  stooil  clustered  around 
a  picture — //i<^  picture,  the  only  picture  upon  the  wall.  At  the 
extreme  end  of  the  room  two  or  three  others  hung — excepting 
these  the  plastered  walls  were  quite  bare. 

"Von  ICtte's  studio  is  as  grim  and  ugly  as  himself,"  remarked 
Miss  Macgregor,  taking  in  the  [)lace  and  the  i)eople  with  an 
American  girl's  cool,  broad  stare.  "There  is  Uncle  (irrif  gaz- 
ing through  his  venerable  old  specs,  lost  in  a  trance  of  admira- 
tion, just  as  if  he  had  never  seen  it  before.  The  dear  okl  soul 
has  no  more  idea  of  art  than  a  benevolent  torn  cat,  but  a  sign- 
board painted  by  little  Von  VAti  would  be  in  his  eyes  as  a 
Murillo  or  a  Rubens  in  tnose  of  other  peo[)le." 

M.  Von  Ette  is  then  di protege  of  Uncle  Grit's?"  asks  Miss 
Owenson.  "  Let  us  take  a  seat  until  these  good  people  dis- 
perse.    I  detest  looking  at  a  [ucture  over  other's  shouldeis." 

"  Carl  Von  Ette  is  Vi protege  of  l^ewis  Nolan.  Lewis  Nolan, 
since  he  was  twelve  }iears  okl,  has  been  a  protege  of  Uncle 
Grif's  ;  while  Uncle  Grif,  ever  since  I  can  remember,  has  been 
manuna's  abject  slave.  1  never  knew  him  to  rebel  except  on 
one  point,  and  that  i)oint  this  same  Lewis  Nolan.  '  The  money 
you  spend  upon  that  Irish  boy,  J5rother  Gril,'  says  mamma, 
looking  at  him  with  her  glance,  beneath  which  the  stoutest 
heart  may  well  blench,  '  would  be  :nuch  more  suitably  employed 
in  educating  your  only  sister's  orphan  children.  Charity  begins 
at  home,  sir.'  And  Uncle  (irii,  bless  him!  quails  and  trem- 
bles, and  makes  answer,  in  quivermg  falsetto,  '  Little  Lewis  is 


%\ 


*•  sintram:' 


261 


like  a  son  to  mc,  Sister  Helen.  It  is  but  little  that  I  lan  do 
for  him  ;  that  little  I  mean  to  do  ;  whatever  is  left,  you  and  the 
children  are  welcome  to,  I'm  sure.'  " 

Miss  Macgregor,  in  her  most  vivacious  tone,  parodies  her 
mother  and  uncle  without  the  smallest  compunction,  and  the 
mimicry  is  so  good  that  Sydney  has  to  laugh. 

"  Mr,  Nolan  is  Irish,  then,  and  poor?" 

"  Of  Irish  extraction,  and  poor  as  a  rat.  His  mother  and 
sister  are  seamstresses.  He  is  a  lawyer  now,  admitted  to  the 
bar,  thanks  to  uncle.  He  began  life  selling  papers,  was  ele- 
vated to  office-sweeping,  was  one  of  those  boys  you  read  of  in 
Sunday-school  books,  and  goody  literature  generally,  who  are 
athirst  after  knowledge,  spend  their  leisure  hours  in  hard  study, 
rise  to  be  prime  ministers,  and  marry  a  duke's  daughter.  Mr, 
Nolan  has  not  had  greatness  of  any  kind  thrust  upon  him  yet, 
but,  after  all,  I  shouldn't  be  in  the  least  surprised  to  see  him  a 
ruler  in  the  land  before  his  hair  is  gray — one  of  those  self-made 
men,  who  are  so  dreadfully  priggish  and  pomi)ous,  and  wiio 
never  tell  a  lie  in  their  lives.  There!  an  opening  at  last.  Now 
let  us  go  and  look  at  the  pictures." 

Kate  Macgregor's  cynicisms  and  worldly  knowledge,  her  sar- 
castic strictures,  on  every  subject  under  the  sun,  were  a  never- 
failing  source  of  wonder  and  amusement  to  Sydney.  A  very 
good  type  of  the  girl  of  the  i)eriod  was  Miss  JVfacgregor, 
devouring  with  relish  the  newspaper  literature  of  the  day,  nuir- 
ders,  divorces,  scandals  the  most  atrocious,  and  ready  to  dis- 
cuss and  analyze  the  most  revolting  cases  with  perfect  sang 
froid — a  girl  to  whom  love  had  meant  notliing  since  her  seven- 
teenth birtli-day,  and  mairiage  and  an  establishment  every- 
thing— a  girl  who  flirted,  waltzed,  took  presents,  went  to  water- 
ing-places every  summer,  went  to  parties  every  winter,  and  in 
the  midst  of  all  kei)t  a  bright  look-out  for  the  main  chanrc — 
a  girl  who  looked  calmly  in  the  face  of  every  man  to  wlior.;  he 
was  introduced,  with  these  two  questions  uppermost  in  her 
mind  :  "  is  he  rich  ?  "  and  "  Can  I  induce  him  to  marry  me  ?  " 
Not  an  evil-minded  or  bod-hearted  young  woman  by  any 
means ;  simply  a  latter-day  young  lady,  true  to  the  teachings 
of  her  life,  and  of  the  world,  worldly,  to  her  inmost  soul. 

The  little  group  before  the  painting  had  dispersed,  and  the 
cousins  were  free  to  look  at  their  leisure.  Miss  Macgregor 
lUnibled  \\\i  her  gray  gloved  hands,  pursed  her  lips,  and  set  iier- 
self  to  iind  out  its  faults, 

*'H'm!    a  very  pretty  picture — subject  somewhat   triste — ■ 


'I 

I 


§ 


262 


**SI^rTJiAM» 


m 


I  lie  Lutle  Sister.'  Nuns  are  rather  a  hackneyed  si.bj.^ct,  but 
ahvays  ctfective.  The  ,i;as-li^ht  falling  on  that  LM-rl's  face  s 
vcy  j;(KHl--very  good,  ind.  cd_a  nxilcn  u-oman  i,:  more  senses 

r'nn'TH  r  *  ^'^^■''  «'''ff=^ '«  painted  with  i.re-Raphaeiite  fid,-!. 
ity,  and  the  fa<:e--l  should  say,  now,  the  face  was  painted  from 
memory-not  exactly  pretty,  !,nt  very  sweet.  1  have  seen 
S.S  ers  of  Chanty  with  just  that  expression.     Do  you  like  it, 

to  s  ?,rr";.'  ?  ^'T  ''^"''  '"  ^"  atmosphere  of  pictures,  so 
to  s))eak,  for  tiie  last  tive  years  ? "  i  ^    ^ 

"Like  if^_     ,."     Sydney  answers  dreamilv,  and  that  elo- 
quent face  01  uers-  -irulv  an  elo.juent  face,  where  all  feelings 
of  the  1.  irt  "r.'  concerned-says  far  more  than  the  .luiet  worcPs. 
rhe  picture  p  eases  hrr  artistic  sense,  but  it  has  done  more- 
it  has  couched  her  heart,  and  she  stands  very  silent  and  looks 
at      long.    It  is  a  city  scene-a  twilight  scene.'  A  primrose  ligh 
yet  h  igers  coldly  in  the  wmtry  sky-the  haze  of  Larly  evenn,.' 
hlls  the  au-  and  the  stre       .unp.s  uiink  dfmlv  through' it.     OnS 
.r  two  bright   rosty  stars  ,,ierce  the  chill  opaline  lustre,  but  day 
I'as   not  yet   departed.      In   the  archway  of  a  large   buildin- a 
woman-ameregirl-seems  to  have  Ldlen,  hudcUing  her    agt 
.d.nut  her  ,n  a  strange,  distorted  attitude  of  pain.      Tier  facets 
"imune.!,   the  gas  Hares  upon   i,,  and  the  haggard  eyes    'tare 
lercely  m  their  mlimte  misery,  their  reckless   cri.ed  despair 
Above  her,  bending  over  her,  her  basket  on  her  arm,  stands  a 
httle  bister  of  the  Poor,  m  her  black  nun's  dress.     Infinite  con> 
passion,  angehc  p.ty,  heavenly  sweetnes.  are  in  the  nun's  wist- 
Itii  lace   Its  peace    its   purity,  its  tender  gentleness,  in  strikin- 

r uSln^s^  on/"'"^  '^■^'""'  '^^  '"^^^'-^^  l^^''^'  ^'-  recS 
wrt,i<.ne(lness  ot  iier  sinning  sister. 

"  Oh  !  "  Sydney  .says,  half  under  her  breath,  '•  how  beautiful 
U^is,  how  pathetic  a  story  it  tells  !     Katie,  your  Von   Ett6  is  a 

"  Very  likely,"  says  Miss  Macgregor,  with  one  of  her  shru-  • 
he  s  hideous  enough,  I  am  sure.  The  <  ontrast  between  1  ose 
two  feces  ,s  very  good.  Jiy-the-by,  th^  •  is  Mrs.  (Jrierson- 
ocious  crcature-and  as  usual,  disgustingly  overdressed  I 
must  go  and  speak  to  her.  The  ide.  .  f  that  woman  comi,;.  to 
see  a  picture  I   the  only  pai,    mg  she  has  soul  enci  gh  to  a  me 

an  'sl^t  "''  "'r  "^  ■'•  '^^^"'■^'  '''''  ^-nersoirisn't  t h e  e, 
and  she  has  a  new  flirtation  in  hand  " 

ov^'lnlf  k,  .^^*''  'V^- '''V'"  7'T.  ^'''^'''^y  ^"^  ^^^ciously 
a^in^  .t  H  '7  ''^  '"  '  '"^'^•"'^'  '^^^  '"  ^  '""^'-"t  they 
are  m  tlie  nnd.t  ot  a  most  anauated  conversation,  abu.ing  theix 


1:       r 


"  S/.VTA'A.V,' 


26j 


absen    and  mutual  friends,  no  doubt,  Miss  Osvenson   thinks 
wth  chsda.n.     She  presently  leaves  the  picture  she  1  L  c^  ne 

^  Sintri^m  "^  "',  ^    '^'""""/'■"">  the  hr.i.     For  it  is  c  tlK.! 

fro.en%no.,   paiin,  "llva;  ilu:;   thc^';^'  ,::i'l:.v^C^:U^ 

Miss   Mar.rr,..rnr         1         ,    "^     '*  "^'-      ^^'^    e.xtlainafioii    ln„„ 
i„.^'!k"''""1*  "";'  '■"'8''"''  ''  "'"'  ^  '""l;  in  licr  ore,  that  Swl 

i,n''" '''':••','",;;"""",'>■  "ff-  u-'^'  'nif  still  r.„«i.l,,";;',K.;'r:;;„ 

-i.^-  on  his  rac,Tv,r^r;,;^xSw.  „;"" '  ,.,':■„?, .s^ 


264 


**S/NTRAAf." 


!! 


by  Iho  expression  of  Ikt  cousin's  face,  i)artly  by  his  vivid  re- 
Kemhlanci-  h.  ilic  "Sintiani."  Miss  Macgu'^or  is  riglit,  the 
likeness  is  a  very  good  one,  lacking  of  course,  the  agony  of 
despair.  A  very  tall  man  is  i\lr.  Nolan.  Sydney  glaiues  approv- 
ingly at  the  active  figure  and  broad  shoulders,  with  a  black,  close- 
cropped  head,  and  a  dark,  rath.r  sallow  fice,  a  face  whosf 
ba  jnual  expression  will  be  that  of  profoumi  gravity,  but  which 
IS  lighted  just  now  by  a  very  genial  sniih-.  liy  no  means  ah.iiul- 
some  face,  but  a  very  good  one,  a  thinking  face,  a  strong  face, 
the  face,  it  might  be,  of  a  man  of  powerful  passions,  held  w.!l 
in  hand  by  a  slill  more  powerful  will. 

"  Here  they  come,"  says  Katheiiiie  Macgregor,  half  under  hn 
breath.  "  Now,  then,  Sydney,  solve  my  riddle  if  you  can.  Teli 
me  what     ,anner  of  man  i,ewis  No'an  is?" 

"  Me  is  a  inan  who  carries  himself  well,  at  least,"  says  Miss 
Owenson,  with  a  .second  calmly  approving  glance.  "  Your  very 
tall  man  slouches,  as  a  rule  ;  Mr.  Nolan  does  not." 

''Lewis,"  .says  Uncle  (Irif,  shambling  up  to  his  niece  and 
looking  at  her  in  meek  de|)recation,  for  the  old  man  stands  in 
mortal  awe  of  his  dashing  young  relative,  "  this  is  Katherinc. 
my  niece,  Katherine.     You  remember  Katherine,  don't  you?" 

"Jt  is  much  easier  to  remember  Miss  Katherine  than  to 
forget  her,"  says  Mr.  Nolan,  with  an  amused  glance  intc  Miss 
Katlierine''.  laughing  eyes.  "  My  memory  in  some  cases  is 
fatally  good." 

"Uncle  (bif  himself  never  remembers  mv  existence  five  sec- 
onds alt.T  I  am  out  of  his  sight,  and  naturally  takes  it  for  granted 
the  res;  ot  mankind  arc  eiiually  criminal,"  says  Katherine. 

•'  V\  e  have  come  to  see  the  picture,  you  perceive,  Mr.  Nolan. 
It  IS  charming.  I  have  fallen  (juite  in  love  wiUi  Mr.  Von  Ette 
since  I  saw  it.     1  always  do  fall  in  love  with  genius." 

"Happy  Von  Ette— happy  genius  ?  Would  that  I— but  of 
what  avail  are  wishes  ?  1  shull  transport  Carl  to  the  seventh 
heaven  this  evening  by  letting  him  know." 

"As  for  this,"  says  Miss  Macgregor,  with  a  graceful  motion 
toward  the  "  Sintrain,  "  "  my  cousin  is  enchanted  with  it.  Oh  !— 
excuse  me— my  cousin,  Miss  Owenson,  Mr.  Nolan.  Quite  a 
foreigner,  I  assure  you,  and  a  judge  of  pictures  ;  has  spent  the 
last  tive  years  of  her  existence  running  from  one  picture  gallery 
of  Europe  to  another." 

"  Poor  Van  Ette  !  How  wretched  the  knowledge  will  m.nke 
bmi,  that  so  formidable  a  connoisseur  has  been  criticising  his 
poor  attempts."  ** 


\ 


*' S/NTRAAf.'* 


ic  seventh 


•«5 


tur,-  II,  ,>     I  l"'-"".<-  ploastis  me,  ami  very  often  llie  nir 

jua  ,lu.  ,,lea.es  me  ,»  one  co„„oi..eurs  ,,/«  overtc^: 

like  t'.'hoT,e'>  "■'"'•=  «-'-,•  "Mr.   Molan  ask,,  "you  really 

omoV  J. «;:'""':;,,  „„;;':;■•  ^""  '•••,"S  l-"'  ^^-^  in  a  comer 
rather  good  *i  am  ,^0  m  ^  ,"  '!"'f'  "'>*'f  =  '  '""""I  i' 
canvas   r  otVit  ifa';:^  'S^'Sl^^':^!^'  ""  «"'™».  "■. 

Nolan  langhs.  ""'u-for  th.s  b.ntran, evidently."  Mr. 

rat'he^rrh^io'^L'tf'^ri^t'n;;::;',';"'"""^^"  ,'^?"-^  "y-  >-« 

really  hnrl  the  gentle    a,^    o  trover '^h'"'; ''''"'•'"•  ■  "'''  >""• 

r-  of  madness,  or  ho.  / ',;};  r°e';^o^,tti'r '^1,:.;™;- 

facetS::.*:%?^i;  tnrk.----  'T'''"^  in.o  N,r.  N„,a„, 
Katie  Afacgregor  steak/  T,''  ^^'"T  ''"^^  <»"■■'■  i'  as 
fades  slowly^o^a  gray  wl,  te      it  ,,''"'''  -T'"''"''  co,„|,lexion 

Seh::lL^-'"--"--''-"^^>"S^ 

sa;:,?o,,^™tt,,Sf;,„''rre",;,:'t  f^r-'"^  <■-•<'■■■  *-= 

Wr.  Nolan's  altere.i  face    "Sir  |.vT'   r  w  ^'■'""""  ='"-''>'  f""" 

forsX;'Mrsi:;V-'.'^-"i-.^''^^^ 

possessing  it." 

"It  is  for  sale,"  he  answers 
giaci  to  dispose  of  it  " 

^^  y  laic   still,  and  his  eyes-very  Jiandsome 


is. 


Is 

the 


tlie   picture 
pleasure   of 


1  should  hke  to  have 

"Von  Kttt^wi!!  only  be  too 


hll 


266 


SINTRAM" 


(.* 


"^Then,  Uncle  Grif,  may  I  commission  you  to  purchase  it  foi 
mc,  says  Miss  Owenson.  "I  really  have  seen  nothing  in  a 
long  tune  which  has  so  completely  taken  my  fancy  " 

fV^'f'^r^f  H  "°  ^^"  °^  MissOvvenson's,l)ut"he  is  Uncle 
(.rif  to  all  who  have  ever  known   him.     Indeed,  his  sprightly 

Unrif  r  V'^l  'V^  affirm   that  in  his  tender  years  heNvas 

Unc  e    C,r,f"    to   the  other   boys   of  the   school.      A  thin. 

patient-looking  old  man,  whom  you  intuitively  know  for  an  old 

ized''w  I?i?'^^  1'  ^'"'^^'T^-  ^'^  ■'''  strong-minded  sister,  patron- 
ized by  lis  nephew  an<l  niece,  and  imposed  upon  in  a  general 
way  by  all  the  world.      One  of  those  „>en  wlio  battle  weaWy  al 
their  lives  with  Mammon,  and  end  as  they  began,  hopelessly 
poor-one  of  the  great  brigade  of  the  Unsuccessful.        '  ^ 

rase.    Mr   m"i      1^'"«  ^'^  y""/'*'-^' engaged  in  the  great  Harland 
case,  Mr.  Nolan,"  remarks  Katherine  Macgreuor 
"  As  junior  counsel— yes." 

nn\':t'TTy^  'f'^'  di-eamily,  his  eyes  still  fixed  with  that  curi- 

ou.sly  intent  look  upon  the  "Sintrain." 

"  It  is  a  great  opening,  is  it  not  ?     You  will  haveachance— 

!l  (r  "'■'>; "^'^-^  a  chance,  I  am  sure,  l„  distinguish  yourself." 
for  nie!-'  ''  '''''''"''*'  ''''""^'^''  '  ^'''''"'  ^'  ^'-^'y  ''l^'^' 

He  takes  no  notice  of  her  smooth  compliment  ;  he  appears  to 

n^'^estT  '"'^     ^'        '''""^''^''  '''''^'  ''^^'  '^'"^"'■^'  ^'  simething 

mL^u    T  l""'  ^''''  ^^^'^^^"^^^"  P^''--^i«ts  his  fair  inquisitor-"  for 
Mrs.  Harland,  are  you  not?" 

"Yes." 

"  Poor  thing  ! "— Katherine  heaves  a  sympathetic  sigh-"  how 
dreadfully  she  must  feel,  to  be  tried  in  a  week  for  her  life  " 
absent  tone' "?<  .T''''*""'  ^Hier  life,"  says  Mr.  Nolan,  stillin  that 

voist      It  will  be  outrageous  to  bring  it  in  even   manslaughter 
Our  hope  ,s  that  we  will  get  a  verdict  of  '  not  guilty.'  "       ^ 

Hut  she  ,.  guilty,"  says  Miss  Owenson,  opening  her  eyes- 
"ty^}f  ^1'  l^'^^-     ^'"i'\^'  i«  "nnde.,  is  it  not  ?  "      ^     ' 
.,il  ^1    *",^.^"P     cries  Lewis  Nolan,  so  suddenly,  so  energeti- 
cally, that  Katie  absolutelv  recoiled  ^"^r^eti 

.u.:^:^£^:,t^:t ''"  ^^'^  '^■^>"^>''  ^-^'"^  at  him 

*'  Nof  murder,  certainly,  else  Heaven  help  the  world.     '1  o 


.,, ., 


4*. 

I 


I 


J 


way  on  tlie 

rcliase  it  foi 
Jthing  in  a 

e  is  Uncle 
is  sprightly 
iars  he  was 
A  thin, 
for  an  old 
er,  patron- 
r»  a  general 
weakly  all 
hopelessly 

t  Harland 


'*sintram: 


267 


\  that 


cun- 


L  chance — 
yourself." 
very  little 


appears  to 
sumething 

tor — '<  for 


jh— "how 

life." 

till  in  that 

,  do  (heir 

slaughter. 


ler  eyes ; 
energeti- 


g  at  him 
irld.     To 


like,  an.l  Wj„l,y  oV.he^wf '•'^''"'■"-'''"  "  """""•  if  >'0" 
"  fin"  soeln,^>""-""r'  "''*,"  '''°"'^  sympathetic  s,V|, 

concerned,  whether  he 'i,  ,  m-  [  ■     ,""-'  ,"'"=  *°  '^'^  "»  1"=  H 

Harland  w'as  seV    imo     e  ;''  he  h'°',  '''??!  '"■  "*'■     «'• 

-|.as.hon„.hehadU:\!^:lrS;i;.t,:^:^S- 

shoo"rg:fs  ,1,0';^;,""''"='"™^''  ^'^^  "-S-SO--.  "for  whon, 

.no^'^shalll^f'lg'SiM'll'in  IfT.r''^'^""  '-  '™=.  "ho 
he  has  ,lie<l  by  her  I  am    a         ^   ''•'"'  ^'''-'-    *»  the  same, 
^^  She  lid  not  mean  to  kill  him  " 

or  thn^' J!;;;'ai;t  ^:,;;s;e5o' i-t::  ;n^f  -  '=  ^  ™-t 
"•'Mi:&.„.^;r;ife!'S'^-  "^'^ 

answering  fire  kinSii  ^i  '/^''^^^L,^^:  i""^  'i">r'''  ^"'^'"'  ^ 
as  we  shall  try  ,0  provl  her  LL'a' „,a,f "     '"'  '"•■^'"•'  "'•"'•■"• 

in  tht"wor,!',°I;;,i::;fC'lr;;r:*  "'»"  ■«  --»-  and  a,o„e  for. 

ca;-™  l^;.^;^'„,rt'ti,7e7,e7Z'nr""°'  ""^  '-"  "« 
man  was   as  Afi«  m.  .       "   '^^^^"  ^''^0"g  t-'xcitenient.     "  I'ho 

Hema,ld;;"d"ir„.if      ^^^.-^^^J-^r  ^  'l-il  i-arn.u" 

nian-he  starved  her,  he  he-u  1^  r*  1  V  ;■"'  "^'^  """'''"'  ■''  "O- 
I'";  l>cr  very  life  was  nM  safe     r^',      '^'"'"i'--'"'  '"■•'•  ho  insulted 

boyond  hn,„an  power  ^  ™  inri^^ce'T.'''"' "-  l"""'^'''  ''"'^"'^■'' 
fron,  the  table,  vhere  he  Im  ell  w  '"""''"•''  ^is  revolver 
'>y  sheer  chance  for  sh„  n       'r    i""'  '  '  "'<■»•  ""d  ^iHs  him- 

J '^n.yon  .iK  m;.,wst,ui,y':rhiro™";r"i,'^''"",'"  '-^-^  'i^- 

"Slidnl  retribution  "  ''■••■"'''  "o'  she.     It  w,,s 

wh;'^■ctf  ™hC:'':';Ss°T™?  ^^.^^°"''»'  i"  -^  -o- 

ea.thlyren,orseorrepe„:a,t"^-ltat'o\S:'i;:j;.||;r,Lr 


tf63 


"  SINTRAM» 


'1j     \l 


^    |l 


It  seems  incredible  to  me  that  any  conscientious  lawyer  can 
plead  for  the  n>an  or  the  woman  who  has  taken  a  life  " 

Not  even  If  taken  in  a  moment  of  madness,  unpremedi, 
tated,  regretted  as  soon  as  done  ?  "  ' 

"No;  for  once  done  it  can  never  be  undone.  No  remorse  no 
repentance  can  give  back  life.  I  hold  that  no  provocation^^ 
none— none— can  pardon  or  condone  the  crime  of  takin.r  Hfe  " 

•Miss  Owenson,  you  are  merciless.  Those  are  very  cruel 
words  from  a  woman's  gentle  lips."  ^ 

"I  think  of  the  victim,  Mr.  Nolan,  as  well  as  the  slayer. 
And  justice  is  a  virtue  as  well  as  mercy  "  ''"'ycr. 

ti  '^\v  "'if '^' ''''  l'^'*"  ^'  ^^'-  ^°^^"  h'^'-self.  and  both  are  paler 
than  Miss  Mac-gregor  has  ever  seen  them.     Sydney  is  thi,  king 

un.!n    nJ^"^'''^"  ^'  ''^?  ''*"^^'-     ^^  ^''  ^ere  murdered,  wha1 

or  haf  de^'thTT  ""^  ^"'^"^""^  "'  "  ''^^^^"^  avait  to'atone 
tor  that  death?  Heaven's  forgiveness  it  might  obtain,  since 
supreme  mercy  reigns  there ;  but  her  forgiveness-cou  d  he 
ever  give  that  ? 

.    "Dear  me!  dear  me !  "   says  Uncle  Grif,  looking  beseech- 

S      Wh^rn"  t  «t^"^r'^  excite' yoursefves-lnow, 
(Ion  t      \V  hat  s  this  Mrs.  Harland  to  you,  Lewis,  my  boy,  tha 
you  shou  d  tight  her  battles  ?    Miss  Owenson.  do'n't  min.^  , 

nit  mnrd  .T'^H  '  ^'^'iV^"  ''^^'  ^''"  '''''''  ^^  ^"^^^n't  com'- 
nut  murder  for  the  world." 

"IJless  you,   Uncle  Grif!"  says  Katie,  patting  the  secdr 
vmild  Xf- ''""'^'^'  ""^"^  a  counsel  fir  the^ieferK^yoJ 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Owenson,"  Mr.  Nolan  says,  but 
he  says  It  with  unconscious  coldness  ;   "I  have  let   my  pro  e 
s.onal  feelings  carry  me  too  far.     I  look  at  this  case  froVn  i 
man's  point  of  view-Miss  Owenson  from  a  young  lajv's.'' 

'\  ^  ^^''^"  should  apologize,"  retorts  Miss  Owenson  in  her 

.smile.        I  should  not  have  expressed  an  oimiion  at  all." 

All  the  same,  though,  you  adhere  like  wax  to  the  opinion 
you  have  expressed,"  .says  the  sarcastic  voice  of  Cousin  KaL 

picturr'    '    ''  '"^^'^'  '"'^  '"'""'"^'  ^""^  ^  ^'''  '"^^  ^'^^ 

Mr.  Nolan  follows  her  glance  gloomily  and  is  silent, 
into  the  iSh  ^^'''''''"^'    ^''-^a^-^'gor  throws  herself  manfully 

timi.V^"!'^  'i''f'  ^^■'^"''>''  ^"'\"^-ny  <iaik.    We  will  barely  have 
time  to  leuch  home  belore  dinner.     Lewis  "-she  turns  to  the 


t 


lawyer  can 

ife." 

unpremedi- 

reniorse,  no 

)vocation — 

aking  life." 

very  cruel 

the  slayer. 

h  are  paler 
is  thinking 
lered,  what 
luF  to  atone 
)tain,  since 
-could  she 


'*sintram:' 


269 


;  besecch- 
ves— now, 
'  boy,  that 
mind  him  ; 
Idn't  coni- 

the  seedy 
;fence  you 

says,  but 
ny  profes- 
isc  from  a 
Iv's." 

son  in  her 
\  satirical 
dl." 

i  opinion 
sin  Katie. 
»k  at  the 


manfully 

reiy  have 
ns  to  the 


I 


young  lawyer  with  her  most  winnijKr  smll,.     "  d^ii 

at  Mrs.  (I,aha,„'s  conversazione    S-Sr  M  f  r  '  ,'f  ,>'''? 

know  .0  be  one  of  the  few  houses  yJl^,^^'  '"^'■^■"  »  ^ 

^^p^,  r„r/il;;i;'- ,v:i';--s?' "'"-  - 

yon  Li-T,f  ::,.'t§r  ,^.i-:i;r  die  s  -z ' 

work  IS  worse  than  over-idleness."  ^"     ^^'-^'■■ 

"  My  brain  will  stand  the  im^smir*^  "  u^  „ 
grimly.     "  Thank<;  n     f h<.       Pressure,    he  answers,  somewhat 
Mac/rc.gor  ''  '        '^"  '^'""'  ^°^  your  friendly  interest,  Miss 

:;Sn.y'iJ^d'  co.Hahty  ,.se,ff    mS  "cJ^^ntl^^s  S^S'  i: 

womanwhosliUsherLS<„\fi,  ;•',''''''  ""-'  ^^"^  "^  ^ 
palronbing  ,„e /     '  I  look  J      f",  °'  '  I  tein|.er,  and  then 

Miss  Owenson  fron,  a  i"dvV  I,^  !'  ^  """  f  I'"'-"'  "^  ">="- 
tran,  ■  did  not  resclL  Z  It  wi  T'Tf""' ' ■,'  "'* , '"''  '  S™" 
its  possession."  "'"  '""'^  "'«"'  "V  pleasure  in 

"1  foresee,"  says  Miss  Afac^recor  cahiilv  "fl,,,     1 
have  met  Lewis  Nolan  n  f..^  ,(,  "^^nnly,  "that  when  you 

nuuual  and  recinroS  a,Wi  '"""K"'"'"'  "  "i"  '"'  »  "»>•■  of 
Sydney,  when  lalKngt't  And  ^^u'T  "■""  •■"'«"■ 
for,  in  the  first  instance  S  en  I  al  '^  """  ™  S''"'"'")' 

Simran,  threw  the  othe,'  m^ove^'he  S™"'"'"  ''"""™  " 

clmngesofMrNZ-s'^nrnl"'''''"''   '^'    ™™"^   '""«'»   •''nd 

Cralnanr     t,^    Nt''   i,  c„2  TV";   '"   ^l-P'^.-lnce  at   Mr,,. 

anceso  anspiciuSs  ^  bLm  "annoVfai  1""' n  ■■■     -i  '"^  ""'•■'""• 
are  at  home."  <=""  "Cannot  la.l  to  end  happily.     Here  we 

On^'th:  lirrbl/'i^fiTfetri^  Soes  up  ,0  her  o™  „om. 

forgets  her  b,e"am;oyii^ee  'fo;;;",.';i"""-'''  ™!''°"^  Pages.'si.e' 
«tane  of  the  unive^as'iu  tewis  Noll™"'  "  ''*"»  '"  ""= 


II 


^¥l 


\}-   ij 


T     (f 


I 

1 


■IP 


270 


7V//.A'  AND   TEA—AND  A  LETTER, 


CHAPTER    III. 

TAI,K    A\J)    TKA — AND    A    LE'JTER. 

jA  RRY  has  refused  to  go,  at  the  last  moment,  with  the 
Arctic  expuhtmn,  ahlu.i.gh  to  go  with  that  expedition 

Need  I  te  1  you  the  reason  why,  little  friend  ?     The 

vord  'Come '  mny  be  in  one  of  lier  letters,  sooner  or  later,  Alicia  ' 

he  sauI  to  me  the  other  day.     '  ^\^hat  are  all  my  adventure    and 

an,b,t.ous  dreams  compared  to  that  one  word  frolp  her  'Poor  feN 

ow  !  you  should  see  w.th  what  wistful  eyes  he  watches  yor le^ 

hrlinThe 'l^'^n^'  f  '  'T'  '"''"'  '"^  ""^'  ■^•S"  ^^  ^-P-  ^And,  my 
daihng,  he  hatdly  longs  for  your  return  more  than  I  do.     All  the 

old  home;.'""'  '"  '''''  ^"'"'  "'^'^  y«"^  ^^^-^  ^^-''  f--   '- 

I  eonmrsleZ  °^  ^  concluding  paragraphs  in  Miss  Alicia 
fc',!,     ;  >  ^'   ""'''  """^'y  t'^»"«''tf"lly,  a  little  sadiv,  Sydney 

folded  .up,  and  sat  n.usmg  long  and  deeply.  Why  shou  d  she 
not  say  that  word  "  Come"  after  all,  and  bring  Sir  Harry  eon 
ard  across  tne  ocean,  to  claim  her  as  his  wife.  No  one  vou  d 
ever  lov-e  her  better,  no  one  would  ever  be  n.ore  wordw  of  S 
ove  And  home,  and  two  loyal  hearts  would  be  hers^  Here 
he  had  no  home  ;  these  relatives  of  hers  could  never  be  tied 

r^L^Tl      "k^';^     ""'''-  ^^^}^«>-W  cold,  hard,  calculating^ 
repelled  her;    kathenne,   cynical,  mercenary,  old  at  five-and- 

s!.;  n^  vul    '^      '  l»Kle-no  man  of  all  the  men  she  had  ever 
cordiJ    .•..7''''  ^^'''^^^"^■^^    ^"y  stronger,  deeper  feeling    than 

L^  m    L       r,-/'"'- ^^''^'''-     ^*'''^"'^''  ^"^^  IK^art-whoIe,  she  had 

gone  through  hfe-,t  seemed  to  her  must  ever  go.     She  had 

KM    Idea   of  the  n,an    she    would  like    to  marry,^  if  she  ev^ 

of  th"  ;."'";'  f\  "^^  ""^  '-^^  ^''  -''^-"  -^'  •>ut'certainly  no," 

si  e  ex,    r   V    ^'      '^  ^'f  '""'  ^PP^oached  that  ,deol.     No  doubt 

sc  expected  too  nn,ch  ;  more  than  she  would  ever  And.     Why 

-'  no    -.te  /'Co.Pe,-'  and  go  back  with  Har,y  Leonard  t"^ 

he  I     In     r         '^«'"^  ^^^re  Alicia  awaited  he-,-,  and  whe.e 

!i^'     ',/'f"/  r'"f-.'"'^  '^^'^Py  "'"^^t^^s?     ^^^^  ^li^l  not   love 

t  ^  i>    '^^     '^V'^'^'i. """  ^^'^'^''  ^"''  i"ve  nught  follow.     Why 

•lot  u,,te  -Come"  to  Su"  Harry  Leonard?  ^ 


h 


i  '.«. 


nt,  with  the 
:  expedition 
two  years, 
-■ntl  ?  The 
Iter,  Alicia,' 
Mitures  and 
.'  roorfcl' 
is  your  let- 
L'.  And,  my 
o.  All  the 
',  from  our 

liss  Alicia 
ly,  Sydney 
should  she 
irry  I, eon- 
one  would 
thy  of  her 
:rs.     Here 
;r  be  tried 
alculating, 
five-and- 
intouched 
as   Bertie 
'  had  ever 
ling   than 
,  she  had 
She  had 
she  ever 
inly  none 
No  doubt 
d.     Why, 
•onard  to 
ml  wlie^e 
not   love 
w.     Why 


TALK  AND    TEA— AND  A  LETTER.  271 

h.r'i!^"T'  ^^'m''-',  .'"y.^^'f  ^'^''^I'"  s'lys  Katherine,  puttmg  in 
her  head,  and  luokuig  unplonngly,  "don't  sit  nioonin-  tlieie  by 
yourself,  and  forget  all  about  the  conversazione,  1  he-  U^hat ' 
the  Cornish  post-mark  again  ?     From  the  baronet,  I  bet  ' 

lor  Miss  Macgregor  said  "  1  bet,"  and  "  I  guess,"  was  well 
k  li  ^.  S  ^;-^l"-<''^s,ve  slang  of  the  day,  and  could  use  it  with 
icillmg  etiect  at  jjrojjer  seasons,  on  her  victims 

;;  My  letter  is  fron,  Miss  Leonard,"  said  Sydney,  folding  it  up. 
Ah  !  M.ss   Leonard-with  an    inclosure  from   mon  frere 
S?n  r"  "KT^I""'^^^^'''  so  dreadfully  secretive.     I  anf  sure 
I  tell  you  every thmg.     You  are  engaged  to  Sir  Harry  Leonard  ?  '• 
^ni  i  f 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  Young,  good-looking,  rich,  a  baronet- 
how  could  you  refuse  hnn  .?  " 

"  How  indeed  !  1  never  said  I  refused  him.  I  never  said  he 
asked  me.     Miss  Leonard  and  her  brotlier  are  two  of  n>y  very 

Ten  Aun?H  1      1  ^''n*i "  f  ""^''•>^'"  "'"^'?     ^  never  heard  it^ 
loll  Aunt  Helen  I  will  be  down  in  three  minutes  " 

Ihus  civilly  dismissed.  Miss  Macgregor  goes-more  and 
more  at  a  loss  to  understand  Miss  Owenson 

"  Her  very  dearest  friend  !  Ah  !  but  I  don't  believe  in  the 
ve.y  dearest  masculine  friends  of  handsome  youn-  heiresses 
U.  whether  engaged  to  the  baronet  or  not,  JJick^has'nt  a  cl  anc  " 
not  the  ghost  oJ  a  chance-of  that  1  am  certain.  Not  t  at  his 
IK.verty  would  stand  in  his  way-she  is  just  one  of  those  foolfsh 
virgins  u  .0  will  falUn  love  with  a  beggir,  and  raise  hi.a  tolhl 
dignity  of  prince  consort,  and  consider  herself  and  her  monev 
f"  insTliK^el'"  ""^  ---^\^'----'  Such  a  man  as  Lewis  No^^ 
Katherine  Macgregor's  face  darkened  suddenly—perhans  as 

'";  abLl'  '"'"'^ '' '"'' '  '''y  ^'^^"  ^'^^  ""^'^^ '--  ^e" 

reJenti'^'"  "IfT'  'n  ^'""""^^  ^^"^^  .'^'""''^^  ^'''  ^"^-  Graham's 
rcceptK  n.     Miss  Owenson,  as  has  been  said,  did  not  yet  wear 

.olors,  but  black   velvet  and  point  lace  can  be  nuu .' ^    ven' 

bSe  hair  ^"  ""  '""""'.'  "//  "  •""'  ''^^^  ^^-'  ^'^  ^-^  "  r 
blonde  nair.       '  1  00  matronly,"  Katherine  Macgie^.^r  pronoun 

cea  he  velvet ;  but  the  rich  sable  folds  falling  aboi!\  the  til  ,  hg^ 
ano  is'  '^^^IT'  ^If  ^!«-c«r.;age,  the  white  tuberose. ancsteph- 
anotis,  would  have  deliLdited  tUt-  eye  o<"  an  ar'it       '^•-      »^ 

^K/^?''^  "'"r"  '"  '^''  ^^-^"""^  resplendence  of'her  HlVe/bi;;; 
silk  ana  pear  s  ;  brunette  as  she  is,  some  shades  of  blue  bv  uas 
light,  she  iinds  extremely  becomin-.  '  ^  ^ 


iMM 


J  If  f'f 


Mja 


tliSi    ! 


I 


TALA'  AND   TEA-AND  A  LETTER, 

"  A  daughter  of  the  gels,  divinely  talL 
And  most  divinely  fair." 


quotes  Dick  Macgregor,  as  Miss  O 


black  velvet 


ijwe 


wenson  comes  forward,  her 


q>ing  behind  her.     "  Uy  George,  Syd 


{ook  like  a  ,.rincc.s  Vy^r',^  ■ '„„K.U    r^rS  t'r"^i/T' 
black  anil  white  too !     1|,„„  ,Io  you  il„  i,%     -n       .u  ,"''>' 

protest.  ^'^''-'^  ^"^s  out   »n  indignant 

"  Only  black  and  wh'te  indpprl      r\,^u,  1 1     i       i 

lace-a  costtune  fit  fo/f /oum'  dnc£  "^  ^Jhn^'^r'  '""^^  ^'"'"' 
deceived.     IVerv  on^  r.f  f  K    *'  O'lciicss.      1  hat  is  how  men  are 

Dick's  cry-"anTy  b  Lf  and  Willi  '  ^^'^''^"^'^"^  ^^'"  ^^'^« 
how  econoinicaHy  a  uftS  eft^^^  l  ti^I'T' •'""'  ''l"^^''"''^  ''^^^- 
exan.ple  for  these  l4u1v   .  vt  1^  'T""'^''  ''•■"'''^^^'  ^^'^^^^^  '-^^ 

And  all  the  t.    e  Mits     wenf  ^^^  ^^'"'  buttertlies  around  her.' 

ti-  richest  ^si^c^^;-:i:^'"^^''  '^^[?';  -^'  --y 

like  that  point  "  siv.;  kZu    ■  '^'''■*''  "■^"  ^^*  noth  nc' 

"ThPttT^      1      .        ^"^^  si»PPer,  scandal  and  weak  tea" 

poor,  dear  Uncle  Crif  ,„i„h,  l„ve  hj,  n  ?  ,  "?"  "  =^'-"" 
Che  breach.  Anything  lo  have's  ,ar«rr'"''"''^  '""'''  '"'° 
,,11,  !,'?,^°r'",»',"''  """".'  '  go  will  n4e  even  Mrs.  r.r.,h •. 

.  .oia;^;^L^ri- --^ -™;«-.%^^^ 


f 


]> 


rward,  het 
dney,  you 
)rt.  Only 
M'  girls  pile 
:  you  have 
iiis  hands, 
.  Sydney 
indignant 

and  point 
>'  nien  are 
will  echo 

Y  itself— 
what  an 

ind  her.' 
md  away 
■  notliinj; 
-St  envy, 

;r  Dick  ; 

It  is  a 

ad  of  a 

ik  tea." 

scandal 

roceeds 
m  cups, 
alk  and 
>   to  in 

'onson  ; 
;  in  the 
r  duty  ? 

Y  lieart 
»r  even 
ed  into 

aham'a 

"and 

e  some 


fi 


TALK  AND   TEA- AND  A  LETTER.  273 

tSi  •'""'  ''  '''''•     '''  -^^--  ^--  that  fellow  sing  than 
r^^-^:^:^1^^^  '  "  ^^y^  S^^-y.     .  He  has  the 

ever  breathed  He  wa  o  ,?  ''f'''''!'''  I'  ^'  ^"od  a  fellow  as 
like  a  brick  Hehaslusrn'hn"'  /''"  ^'''  y^'''  ^"^^  ^""ght 
fighting  con.e  natur^  I  snppose  '"'  '"""'^'  '"  '""  ^°  »-''- 

to  JhT  w:;,dt;r:^;^rs^'±i'i^^f-^^^^^^^    Macgrcgor, 

months'  furlough  n ml  11^         *"  ^'''"'"  "^^ '"'  ^^'"'b'  for  alwj 
It  is  the  seco  riei,  ^ti^^^^^^^^  f  ""'^^  '^'"^  ^°^^»  '"  Virginia! 

gregor  went  out  with  the  first  ^"'^'^^^^"^ness,"  and  Dick  Mac- 

^^^^cJ!:^':^riSs::-:iT^^ ''  ^^^"t  ^^•'•^-  -^^  of 

boy,  I  reinen  ber  L  wo  id  ^^'  '  ^  ''f '°"  ^^'^  '""^ic.  As  a 
play  1-rn.oniouT'ct;  :tu.t  vd".^^^  ^'JJ^'Z''  ^^e  piano, 
by  ear.  As  he  grew  older  nH  V'  r  "^"""le  off  street  tunes 
boy's  abilities,  hfcl  l^n,  ta,  l^u  n  ;"r'.'n''*'"''^"«'>'  ^^'"  ^^  J^'^ 
adopted  hiu.,  in  a  n  ea  uJe  whenV  ''"  ^T  ^'^"^  ^"^^^^  ^^'^^ 
I^ewis  Nohk  owes  i^T  at  Te  k  ^'^''  °'^^'  ''^"^^  ^'^^^  to  hini 
^lay  ?  He  is  also  o  '  ntt  o  ITT<^  T^^^  lawyer  to- 
n.st  go  son.  SundayN;:^  ^ t^on^^i:^  tl^^^^^ ^  ^^ 

^ungs^.  e.chan,ed,  a.;d^;^j:i-|ir;^- e/^^^^^^^^ 

sort  of  thing  is  slow.     T-JtTnd  tJl         \  'l^^'^ '  ^'  ^  ^"'-'  ^his 
an.usen.ents  on  eartl,.  ,0^     '^,  f  ^  not  then.ost  stinu.latu.g 

1^'t  n.e  know,  and  we  ,  :{^\^Z  e^rly  '' '■'^'  ^^^""^'  ^*^  ^"'"'^  >'°^ 

nuketisrw:;;:;'^s;i^.:i?^:r^^'  tr^  ;)^^^  ^'---^  -^ 

and  cheerful  lookinri  r  v"  '    •^^'■'-  ^'•"''^'^^'^'"  is  a  larije 

destitute '---aScd        -:    /  T'""  ^•^'^-tl^^U  "refuge  of  the 
fhn  " /«'^'i'-tt(l    to  embiynpoint.  eood  nature    -•--'        • 

face  is  known  to  ev^v  man  n  ^^     ^^"^t'^-'>"^'  Macgregor's 


'74 


TALK  AND    TEA— AND  A   LETTER. 


ft.fl 


E^fgi 


guislied  of  manner.  And  wlicn  tin-  whisper  goes  round  that  she 
IS  the  Mi.s  Owenson,  the  rich  Miss  Owenson  just  returned  from 
luirope,  Miss  Owenson  becomes  the  star  of  the  assembly,  and 
Miss  Macgregor  and  Mrs.  Graham  are  besieged  with  i)ressin.r 
aspirants  for  mtrochictions.  It  grows  a  bore  in  time,  but  Syd*! 
iK-y  shows  no  sign  of  boredom  in  her  gracious  flice.  Still  it  is 
something  of  a  relief  when  she  finds  herself  in  a  <iuiet  corner, 
with  Dick  devotedly  beside  her,  and  free  for  a  moment  from  her 
Court. 

"  Oil,  Solitude,  whert  are  thy  charms  ?  "  says  Dick  "  '  Oh 
for  a  hxlge  in  some  vast  wilderness,'  where  talk  and  tea  are  un- 
known. J.et's  sit  down  here,  Sydney,  and  be  a  comfortable 
couple.  Here  is  a  book  of  engravings,  they  always  turn 
over  books  of  engravings  in  novels,  if  you  notice.  Let  us 
Uve  a  chapter  out  of  a  novel,  and  turn  over  the  engravings  " 

He  thinks,  as  he  says  it,  that  there  is  not  a  picture  of  them 
ai  as  fair  and  sweet  as  Sydney  herself-a  slight  tlush  on  her 
cear,  pale  cheek,  the  golden  hair  Hashing  against  the  rich 
blackness  of  her  robe. 

"  Your  friend  Mr.  Nolan  is  not  here,"  she  says,  as  Dick 
spread  out  his  big  portfolio,  preparatory  to  examining  the  en- 
gravings.  ° 

"  ^'"'^  '^f  •*  ,  .^.^'O'  likely  not.  You  see  he  is  a  yoiing  man  of 
uncommonly  high-toned  notions-poor  and  proucf,  as  they 
p  uase  It  As  Katie  says,  he  owes  all  he  has  to  Uncle  (irif. 
Ijismolher  and  sister  are  dressmakers,  I  believe,  and  as  yet 
Nolan  hasn  t  achieved  any  distinction  worth  si)eaking  of.  He 
never  goes  anywhere  ;  his  voice  would  open  no  end  of  doors, 
but  he  won  t  be  asked  for  his  voice.  He  makes  an  exception 
somehow,  in  Mrs.  (haham's  favor.     Ah  !  there  he  is  now  " 

Ihe  piano  in  the  back  drawing-room  had  been  going  industri- 
ously since  their  entrance  ;  but  now  a  new  iiand,  the  hand  of  a 
master,  touched  the  ke3-s,  and  the  grand,  grateful  notes  were  won- 
clionsly  ditterent  from  the  young  lady-like  jingle  that  had  gone  be- 
lore.  J  his  was  the  touch  of  a  musician,  and  the  instrument  seemed 
to  know  and  respond.  "Z.r  ci  JJaran^'  was  what  Mr.  Nolan 
sang  and  played  ;  and  the  i)iclures  were  untouched,  and  Dick 
and  Sidney  sat  absorbedly  listening.  Jt  was  a  powerful  tenor, 
with  tluit  veiled  sympatiietic  vibration,  that  undertone  of  patho« 
in  Its  swee'ness,  that  reaches  the  heart. 

''1  don't  care  for  Italian  opera,"  says  Captain  MacL'retror : 
ii^.ii  deuce  o;  a  huie,  as  a  nil-  ;  but  i  like  that.     La  ciDarem 
la  mano,  he  is  sm-iii^  i,ow.     Niceish  voice,  isn't  it  " 


%X. 


nd  that  she 
iirncd  from 
L'liibly,  and 
th  pressing 
L',  but  Syd- 
Still  it  is 
iict  corner, 
It  from  her 

k.  "  '  Oil 
:ea  arc  un- 
)nifortal)Ie 
vays  turn 
Let  us 
vings." 
e  of  them 
ish  on  her 
the   rich 

.  as  Dick 
g  the  en- 

ig  man  of 
as   they 
icle  Grif. 
id  as  yet 
:  of.     He 
of  doors, 
xce|)tion, 
o\v." 
industri- 
land  of  a 
'ere  won- 
gone  be- 
t  seemed 
r.  Nolan 
nd  Uick 
ul  tenor, 
)f  pathos 

:gregor : 
!  Darem 


TALK  AND    TEA^AND  A  LETTER.  975 

Surc-lv  .hey  will  no,  l'',  hr„o|,  "  "'"    ''"""   """'■^   ""=• 

assure  vol,      T,!       I     •     9"f^/"s— take 'em  all  off  capitallv  I 
and  see' 11.""'  '""  '^  ""^^""^  ^^^'^  ■  '^^'^  ^""-v  th'ecrZd, 

wiil^^^/rSohm  int:::;::iir'^  ^'^^-^  r  ^°  ^'^  «^'-^  --"• 

and  where  K ■  ther  ne  S  f        "'7'"^'  '^''''^  ''^'  ^'  '^'^  l»'^"o 

instrtu^ent,    flu  en'    1  er^'-Tafn  ^'' r'  ^"■^^'^''"">'  ^^^^^^^  ^I^- 
eyes.  """^""g    her   fan  and    hstenmg  with   downcast 

The  contortionsof^sS    ,,:;£'  h;nri"''      '\  ""''''  '"""• 

even  c„  any  ve^dl^^^.^L'^^";  t'.^'V:;:'!,!  X"  Ir  '""'"" 
gcmly  pats  his  kiddal  naw,      ..  v  f         ^''-  M^fSregor 

We  will  ,a.e  your  whLi^ru..  an      fare^.Tcl^?"""  "■^=^"'  •' 

fion,  be,,iu^°  e,^sable   a  he     h^f  hi"'"    ""«•  "=,'"'"  K'^nces 
culioii  ii,  her  lime.  '  ^'''"'  ''""'=  ™<^l'  "-'""'g  exe- 

way,  refuial'jvouk    be  an  i„  ,0^1^,^'  ':f  '  T'"'  '""  '"  "'^' 
«"."e,hi„g  pathetic,  of  co„T   wlrfhis  S:!'?"     "'''  '"  '•"'■''"''• 

»le    plays    a    jaiintv.    triiipino    .,■■,!>.  li'--    -,       i 
wiiici    ns  voice  l)lenH«  i„    •'    .»'  .■'•"""'^c  symphony,    njto 

.  ....schte™.  ,i'g'h."fr  c^es'tTCr  £"-!r; 


,  Ibi 


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m 


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'f  jf  pi 


# 


":?^;[=  i 


n«  /WZA-  .,.0    TEA- AND  A   LETTER. 

"  My  eye  !  how  I  love  you. 
You  sweet  little  (love,  you  I 
There's  no  one  above  ymi, 

Most  beautiful  Kilty. 

*•  So  glossy  your  hair  is, 
Like  a  sylph  or  a  fairy's 
And  your  neck,  I  declare,  is 

Exquisitely  pretty. 

"  Quite  Grecian  yonr  no^e  is, 
And  your  checks  arc  lil.e  roses, 
00  delicious — oh,  Moses  ! 

Surpassingly  sweet  I 

"  Not  the  beauty  of  tulips, 
Nor  the  taste  or  mint  jnleps 
Can  compare  with  your  two'  lips. 

Most  beautiful  Kate. 

"And  now,  dearest  Kitty, 
It's  not  very  pretty, 
Indeed  it's  a  pity 

To  keep  me  in  sorrow  : 

••  So,  if  you'll  but  chime  in. 
We'll  have  done  « ith  our  rhymin', 
bwap  Cupid  for  i  lynien. 

And  be  married  to-morrow." 

cha„t''„^!;::,:Sci:^l.tei'u;if:  ^:'  -'""  ,"•- 

Dick  does  not  finish  his  scnience,  for  ihe  subicrt  ^f  i,  ,,• 
from  his  seat,  sees  them,  and  approaches      A.  h^  1     ,  '•■' 

warmth  in  his  dark  face,  aniinS    in   .'he   larue  .7^;  T' 

"  Tliat  was  all  very  delightful    indeed    old  Imv  "  le  tv  i . 

5_,       -    ..^-        _. 


i 


it      -I 


14 


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s 
i 

a 
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a 

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ey 


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rises 
low, 
yes, 
e  is 

ck's 
i  or 
>  of 


TAIA'  AND   TFA-AND  A  LETTER.  277 

ad(.rlng   .ngcl.,  as  you  are  wherever  you  iro?     Mi^«:  O.^-.n . 

pos,  Miss  Ovvenson,  vou  have  h,.;   ^  c       .  •    ^'"""^ 

Jappy  one  .  ,or  fellow  who  ha'  .  .erT";  o""  'r^  "'7 
r^T"'~'r  :  ;^^-the  ,nost  ex.  .aWe^.S^n^l^l^'t 
i.arly  expired  with  ecstasy  when  I  told  Mm  of  von?  wl  ' 
.on  of 'Smtram/  and  your  intention  of  urZw  H  'h  '" 
to  he  studio  on  the  instant,  had  it  packed  ip  In;  .1 
wi  ,:nd  u  at  home  before  y'ou  up.  /  Jour  re'rL' "''  '"^  ^"" 
In  „;•''"    ,  ''''^  '  "^"  fort.mate,  indeed,"  S  Jney  responds,  "if 

troubled  n)e  more  than  I  can  uJ.        •     '^  ^^*  ""'  ''^'* 

llie   apology  IS   needless,"   she   savs    cordi-illv      «  ti, 
was  no  offence— how  could  there  be?     l'  ,^"'*''''  7-      '  ^''f.® 
after."  "^     ^  "^^^'''  thought  of  it 

The  dark  gravity  of  the  afternoon  overspread  his  face  -x.-x.n 

side  s,„:si>uia.t„;:;"fo„,;"'* "'  ''^'""'  --  ">■'-' 

V.»,  Mis»  Owcn^ou,  troubled  u.c  :-;„7il-„,;c™v,u;u.;;';:;^ 


I; 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST    CHART 

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278 


TALK  AND   TEA— AND  A  LETTER. 


J 


ni 


r 
t 

I,, 

1 


!,  t 


not  with  Mrs.  Harland,  most  assuretUy  I  would  not  plead  het 
case.     I  have    conscientious  notions   about  this  sort  of   thing 
that    are  exceedingly  uni)rofessional,  I  know— notions    I   will 
never  outlive.     Jiut  that  Mrs.  Harland  is  a  murderess,  1  will  not 
cannot  believe."  ' 

"  Not  with  intent,  perhaps " 

"  Not  at  all,  Miss  Owenson.  See  !  for  years  her  life  with  this 
man  was  a  daily  and  hourly  martyrdom.  He  starved  her,  he 
insulted  her— he  was  all  the  worst  husband  can  be  to  the  most 
helpless  wife.  She  bore  it  patiently,  submissively;  she  was 
friendless,  poor,  and  alone— for  years  she  endured  it.  One 
day  he  comes  home  half  drunk,  lays  his  revolver  on  the  table, 
is  more  brutal  than  usual,  offers  her  an  insult,  devilish  in  its 
atrocuy.  It  maildens  her.  Hardly  conscious  of  what  she 
is  domg— goaded  beyond  endurance— she  lifts  the  pistol,  fires, 
and  he  falls*dead.  She  had  not  meant  to  kill ;  withou-t  thoughtj 
hardly  knowing  what  she  does  do,  she  kills  him.  Is  this 
nunder?" 

Sydney  is  silent ;  his  sui)pressed  vehemence  almost  frightens 
her.  How  interested  he  is  in  this  Mrs.  Harland  !  Does  he 
mean  to  free  her,  and  marry  her  after? 

"  She  is  filled  with  a  remorse,  a  desjjair,  an  anguish  I  never 
saw  e(iualled,"  he  goes  on.  "  How  she  lives  or  keei)s  her  reason 
is  more  than  1  can  understand.  If  she  could  give  her  life  to 
restore  his  she  would  give  it  thankfully,  joyfully,  'is  this  woman 
then  guilty  ?     Does  the  crime  of  murder 'lie  at  her  door?  " 

"  (Jh  !    1   don't  know,"  Sydney  says,  with  a  look  of  distress. 
"No,   surely  not.     And  yet  it  is  an  awful  thing—whether  by 
accident,  by  passion,  or  by  intention— to  take  a  "human  life. 
^    "Awful  I     Great  Heaven  !  yes,"  he  says,  in  a  voice  so  thrilU 
uig  that  Sydney  looks  at  him  in  ever-increasing  wonder ! 

Surely  he  must  love  this  Mrs.  Harland,  else  why  the  passion- 
ate agony  of  that  whisper  ? 

"Poor  fellow!"  she  thinks  ;  "  it  is  hard  on  him.  He  deserves 
Isometliing  better  than  to  care  for  a  woman  whose  hands  are  red 
with  her  husband's  blood." 

There  is  a  ])ause.  Sydney  turns  oveF  the  pictures  without 
seeing  thejn,  conscious  of  a  dawning  and  strong  interest  in  this 
man.  He  rests  his  forehead  on  his  hand,  so  dark  a  look  in  his 
face  that  she  absolutely  wonders  if  this  be  the  same  man  whoa 
few  minutes  ago  sang  laughingly  a  comic  song,  'i'hat  he  should 
keep  his  levity  for  them,  his  earnestness  for  her  is  a  subtle 
liattery  that  conc^uers  her  as  no  other  flattery  could. 


TALK  AND    TEA— AND  A  LETTER. 


279 


)t  plead  her 
)rt  of  thing 
ions  I  will 
s,  1  will  not, 


ifc  with  this 
ved  her,  he 
to  the  most 
y;  she  was 
d  it.  One 
1  the  table, 
vilish  in  its 
what  she 
)istol.  fires, 
irt  thought, 
1.     Is    this 


"  Surely  my  foolish  opinions  can  have  no  weight  with  you 
Mr.  Nolan,  no  power  to  pain  yoii,"  she  says,  very  gently.     ''  If 
so  I  am  mdeed  sorry.     Jt  shall  teach  me  to  be  less  hasty  and 
presumptuous    m  proffermg   opinions   for  the    future.     In  the 
oight  of  Heaven  1  cannot  believe  your  friend  is  guilty  of  this 
dreadful  crune,  and  I  sincerely  hope  you  may  get  a  verdict  " 
,      "My  friend,"  he  says,  and  he  lifts  his  head,  and  a  smile  breaks 
up  the  (lark  thoughtfulness  of  his  face,  "I  have  not  seen  Mrs 
Harland  three  tunes  m  my  life  :  after  the  trial  I  shall  probably 
never  see  her  again  while  I  live.     I  am  interested  in  her  as  a 
woman  who  has  suffered  greatly  ;  but  it  is  whether  or  no  the 
guilt  of  murder  is  upon  her  that  centres  my  interest.     This  is 
what  I  would  give  worlds,  if  I  possessed  them,  yes,  worlds,  to 
know.  ' 

"He  is  not  in  love  with  this  unhappy  Mrs.  Harland,"  Sydney 
thinks.  "  I  am  glad  of  that.  I  like  him.  He  deserves  some- 
thing  better.     He  looks  like  a  man 


St  frightens 
Does  he 

ish  I  never 

1  her  reason 

;  her  life  to 

-his  woman 

oor?" 

of  distress. 

vhether  by 

tan  life. 

:e  so  thrill- 

ler ! 

le  passion- 

le  deserves 
ids  are  red 

es  without 
est  in  this 
look  in  his 
nan  who  a 
t  he  should 
s  a  subtle 


'•' To  bear  without  rebuke 

The  grand  old  name  of  gentleman.'  " 

"I  am  afraid  I  have  bored  you  mercilessly  with  this  tracrfc 
aftair,"  he  goes  on,  his  face  and  tone  changing  ;  "  it  is  uiM)er- 
niost  m  my  thoughts  ;  I  feel  it  so  deeply  ;  but  hold— I  am  sin- 
ning again  while  I  apologize.  Let  us  look  at  the  pictures  • 
Mrs.  Graham  never  aftVonts  her  guests'  intellect  by  ofterinir' 
poor  ones."  * 

'I'hey  look  at  the  pictures  accordingly,  and  talk  ot  he  pic- 
tures. Miss  Owenson  has  seen  many  of  the  fine  old  paintings 
from  which  these  engravings  are  taken,  and  Mr.  Nolan  has  a 
cultivated  eye  and  taste,  and  a  keen  love  of  art.  They  talk  of 
Italy  and  Germany,  and  those  classic  foreign  lands  which  slie 
has  seen  and  loved,  which  he  longs  but  never  expects  to  see. 
And  minutes  fly,  and  hours,  and  to  Sydney's  horror— for  she 
hates  anything  like  a  pronounced  me-d4cte—\k\Q\x  conversation 
docs  not  end  until  Katherine  seeks  her  side,  and  die  comuany 
rise  to  disperse.  ^ 

_  "  Really,"  Miss  Macgregor  says,  and  if  there  is  a  fine  shade  of 
irony  in  her  tone  Sydney  does  not  take  the  trouble  to  detect  it, 
'  for  two  i)eople  quarrelling  fiercely  at  their  first  meeting,  you 
seem  to  have  got  on  well  with  Mr.  Nolan.  \Vere  you  quarrel'ling 
again,  my  dear,  or  making  up,  and  was  I  not  a  true  prophetess  ?  " 

"  A  true  prophetess !     What  did  you  predict  ?  "  asks  Sydney, 


M 


1 

1. 

i 

If 

280 


fl 


liiii 


r^Z/r  AATD    TEA— AND  A   LETTER. 


with  equal  carelessness.  '*  Mr.  Nolan  and  I  neither  quarrelled 
nor  made  up,  and  1  have  to  thank  him  for  spending  a  very  pleas- 
ant evening.     If  I  have  a  weakness  it  is  for  men  of  intellect." 

"  And  you  don't  meet  them  every  day.  Poor  Dick  !  "  laughs 
Dick's  sister.  So  talk  and  tea  are  not  so  utterly  Jiuvoiless  after 
all,  belle  cousine." 

"  If  the  talking  is  done  by  Mr.  Nolan — no,"  retorts  Sydney, 
with  spirit. 

"  Don't  excite  yourself,"  says  Miss  Macgregor.  "  I  have 
heard  before  that  Lewis  Nclan  itnproves  on  acquaintai>ce. 
Does  he  not  sing  divinely  ?  Has  he  not  a  thoroughbred  look 
for  one  with  so  few  opportunities  ?  Ah  !  what  a  pity  he  is  so 
poor." 

"  '  Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands, 
And  having  nothing  yet  hath  all,'  " 

quotes  Sydney.  "  What  would  you  ?  Men  cannot  expect  to 
have  money,  and  brains,  and  divine  voices.  For  my  own  part, 
all  the  men  I  ever  found  worth  talking  to,  ever  was  interested  in, 
were  men  without  a  sou." 

*'  Ah  !  you  are  interested  in  Mr,  Nolan  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  says  Sydney,  flinging  back  her  head,  and  accepting 
the  challenge. 

"  And  only  in  poor  men  I  Sir  Harry,  I  have  heard,  is  worth 
twenty  thousand  pounds  a  year.  I  am  afrai  1  I  shall  not  have  a 
Isaronet  for  a  cousin-in-law,  after  all.  Now,  now  !  don't  freeze 
into  stateliness,  Syd.  I  don't  mean  anything— I  never  do  mean 
anything.     Come." 

Dick,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  looking  depressed  and  unha-ppy, 
offers  Sydney  his  arm.  Mr.  Nolan,  who  stands  talking  cheerfully 
fo  him,  does  duty  for  his  sister. 

"  Yoii  never  come  to  see  us  now,"  the  couple  in  front  heard 
Katherine  say,  in  a  plaintive  voice.  "  Have  you  vowed  a  vow 
to  honor  Mrs.  Graham  alone  with  your  friendship  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  Mrs.  Grahn.p  jks  upon  my  friendship 
in  the  light  of  an  honor.  It  is  a  n^-  ea,  however,  and  1  shall 
inquire." 

"  That  is  not  an  answer  to  my  question.  Why  do  you  not 
come  to  see  us  as — as  you  used  ?  " 

"  As  I  used  ?  "  Mr.  Nolan  lifts  his  eyebrows.  "  Used  I  ever  ? 
I  have  no  time  for  dangerous  delights.  I  have  to  work  *  from 
early  morn  'til  dcvy  cvc  '  for  my  chily  bread  and  butter." 

"Dangerous  delights  ?  "  says  Miss  Macgregor  with  an  artless 
upward  glance.     "  What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 


i  u 


R. 

ler  quarrel  led 
J  a  very  pleas- 
r)f  intellect." 
ick  ! "  laughs 
uiless  after 


1-- 


torts  Sydney, 

•r.  "  I  have 
icquaintai>ce. 
ughbred  look 
pity  he  is  so 


ot  expect  to 
ii>y  own  part, 
interested  in, 


nd  accepting 

jard,  is  worth 

.11  not  have  a 

don't  freeze 

2ver  do  mean 

ind  unha-ppy, 
ing  cheerfully 

1  front  heard 
vowed  a  vow 

ly  friendship 
r,  and  1  shall 

do  you   not 

Jsed  I  ever  ? 
work  '  from 
jutter.'' 
ith  an  artless 


TALIC  AND   TEA-AND  A  LETTER.  281 

"Do  I  really  need  to  explain,  Miss  Macgregor?"  retoits  Mr 
Nolan,  looknig  down  uito  the  upturned  dark  eyes 

"Miss  Macgregor  ?— it  used  to  be  Katie,"  says  Katie,  and  in 
the  low  voice  there  ,s  a  tremor,  either  real  ir  well  assumed 

Oh    by  Oeorge     let  us  get  on,"  says  Dick,  with  a   face  of 

L^et  on  h':"  TT  ^\^>'^"^'>^  1-^'hs.  'she  his  been  t;;"g  to 
get  on  herself,  for  the  last  two  minutes,  out  of  earshot  of  this 
conversation,  and  succeeds  so  well  that  Mr.  Nolan's  response 
to  Katie's  last  is  inaudible.     Katie's  cheeks  are  slightly  fl  shed 

h nsln  'M^'  r""^'"  '^'   '"""''^Se,  and  the  smile^i     he 
lips  shows  It  has  been  to  order. 

1  "  V''i-'n*°  Heaven,  Katie,"  growls  Dick,  "when  you  make 
love  to  ellows,  you  wouldn't  do  it  quite  so  loudly.  OH  Van! 
derdonck  h.mself-deaf  as  an  adder-might  have  Ilea  d  von 
spooning  to  Lewis  Nolan,  if  he  had  been  there."  "'"^  ^°" 

tie  li^lhln"    "''^""'^  ""^''''  ^'^"  '''''■^^'  '""^  ^^'-''^°'"^'  "^y  g^"' 
"And  if  you  think  Nolan's  to  be  taken  in  by  your  soft  sawder 
you  re  a  triHe  out  of  your  reckoning,  let  me  tell  you      HeS 

chaff."  •'"■''  ''°''"  ''''''  ""'■'  '^^'^  "' ^  S°-S  '-  ^-  "-%"  with 
^ J  ^'""^lu  """^f  ^'''  Macgregor,  "it  is  patent  to  the  dullest 
mi^'n^ll'  ^h^V^''"f  ^'"';!'  ^^  ""''''  ^^^'"'"^  ^^^^"t""  have  bee 
a;^  ee  ^fh'"  '"^  v  ^''°'  '^'"'  ^''  ^"^^^  °^  gunpowder  tea  do  J 
nuh.n.  /''"'  '^'^'''T  "'■S''^"'-  ^I'herefore  we  excuse  the 
r^st^^^L^cChTii;:?^'  and  prescribe  total   silence   for   the 

hoSehoS.°''^''  ^"^°b^y^-K^therine  is  the  ruling  spirit  of  the 

roo^n '  ""o^  ""/r^'  iff  '*"''^'"S  two   when   Sydney   reaches   her 
sS'nf     ',''''""  ^^-T  "S.ntram."     She  greets   it   with   a 

T\!Z        ''"T  '"  ^°°'t^"S  at  it,  as   she  has   feared.     On 
the  table  lies  a  letter  with  a  Canadian  postmark,  and   in  a 

eagu-ly,  without  waiting  to  remove  her  wraps.     It  is  from  Mr. 

h.HnlT'  'Vn"'"u^i. ''"''  '^"  ^'-'^  ^■""''•"  him  for  news   of 
her  lost  friend  Cyrilla  Hendrick. 

u^  ,,  Montreal.  vVtf/A  2  3//,  18 

*' Respected  Miss  : "  '  -./->  ^o    - 

r.l^^n  ^^.'^"''^  f"'^^^'  '  *h^  "  Respected  Miss"  is  so  like  what 
poor  Cynlla  used  to  tell  her  of  her'  middle-aged  Scottish  sulion 


51 


282        A  BASKET  OF  FLOWERS  AND  A  DINNER. 

"Yours  of  the  17th  inst.  came   to  hand 
tents  duly  noted,     in  reply,   1  have  to  say  x 
the  present  whereabouts  of  the  late    lamented 

ece.      On  the  day  before  my  return  to  th 


yesterday,  and  con- 

"  'now  nothing  of 

Miss   Dormer's 


last  i\ray,  she  left  by 


IS  cUi 


fou 


r  years  ago 
^^oston.  I  made  inciuiries 
conceinmg  her— advertised  for  her  in  the  Boston  papers,  and 
placed  a  certam  sum  of  money  at  her  disposal.  In  the  course 
of  the  followu.g  vyeek  J  received,  in  reply  to  my  advertisement, 
a  letter  from  the  head  physician  of  one  of  the  public  hospitals  of 
i>oston.  A  young  lady  answering  the  description,  from  Montreal, 
was  lymg  very  111  under  his  charge;  some  mental  strain,  appar- 
ently, and  physical  exhaustion,  had  prostrated  her  to  such  an 
extent  that  it  was  doubtful  if  she  would  ever  recover.  I  went 
to  Jiost^on  ;  I  saw  and  identified  her  (herself  unconscious),  and 
ordered  every  care  and  attention.  She  recovered  eventually, 
wrote  me  a  brief  note  of  acknowledgment,  and  at  the  earliest 
possible  moment  (piitled  the  hospital.  Since  then  I  have  neither 
seen  nor  heard  from  the  late  lamented  Miss  Dormer's  niece. 
1  lus  IS  all  1  have  to  communicate,  and  I  remain.  Respected  Miss, 
vours  to  connnand,  Donald  McKelpin." 


■r 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A   BASKET   OF   FLOWERS   AND   A   DINNER. 

lATHERINE,"   says  Mrs.  Macgregor,  -do  lay  down 
that  book,  get  off  that  sofo,  dress,  and  go  down  town, 
match   this  fringe,  go  to  Fratoni's  for  ices,  and  to 
Greenstalk's  for  the  cut-flowers.     Do  you  hear  ?  " 
"  I  hear.     Anydiing  else  ?  " 

"  And  make  haste.  VViiere  your  own  personal  gratification  is 
not  concerned    Katherine,  1  must  say  you  are  unbearably  lazy. 

1  leie,  the  whole  lorenoon  was  si)ent  in  bed " 

"  ^^l'-"  y^"  /eally  exi)ect  me  to  get  up,  and  go  to  matins  at 
t>i.  Albans  after  dissipatmg  at  Mrs.  Graham's  until  two  this 
iiKjinnig  ?  ■' 

"1  expect  very  little  of  you,  my  daughter,  that  will  put  you 
to  the  least  inconvenience.     I  know  of  old  how  useless  it  would 


'NNER. 

rday,  and  con- 
o\v  nothing  of 
^tiss  Dormer's 
four  years  ago 
nade  iniiuiries 
1  papers,  and 
In  the  course 
advertisement, 
ilic  hospitals  of 
rom  Montreal, 
I  strain,  appar- 
er  to  such  an 
over,  I  went 
onscious),  and 
xl  eventually, 
Lt  the  earliest 
I  have  neitiier 
jrnier's  niece, 
-'spected  Miss, 
IcKelpin." 


R. 

'  do  lay  down 
o  down  town, 
ices,  and  to 
oil  hear  ?  " 

[ratification  is 
)earably  lazy. 

•  to  matins  at 
ntil  two  this 

will  put  you 
eless  it  would 


A  BASKET  OF  FLOWERS  AND  A  DiNNER.  7%Z 

be  to  expect  it.     Tho^e  commissions  I  mentioned  must  be  do ne 
this  afternoon.     My  dressmaker  is  at  a  dead-lock  for  the  frin-e 
lei  haps  you  exi)ect  me— worn  out  as  I  am,  to  go  after  it  iny- 

«  messed  are  they  who  expect  nothing-of  which  number  am 
J,    retorts  Miss  katliernie. 

She  has  been  lying  on  a  sofa  in  the  family  sitting-room  during 
this  discussion,  a  i^rovoking  drawl  in  her  voice— her  eye  never 
once  leaving  her  book.  In  an  arm-chair  by  the  window,  also 
reading,  and  m  a  dress  whose  faultless  neatness  is  a  strikin.r 
contrast  to  her  cousin's,  sits  Miss  Owensr  Mrs.  Macrre-or 
a  portly  matron,  with  a  frisette  of  glossy  uarkness,  coldl?  glim- 
mering blue  eye,  an  austere  Roman  nose,  a  thin,  severe  mouth, 
and  a  worncd  and  anxious  air  generally,  looks  ui)  from  her  sew- 
ing to  regard  her  undutiful  daughter  with  an  angry  glance 

'•  Katherine,  will  you  or  will  you  not  get  up  and  go  down 
town  ?  cj        1  o 

"  -Best  of  mothers,  I  would  much  rather  not.  The  day  is  cold 
and  disagreeable  ;  1  feel  dreadfully  sleepy  yet,  and  this  novel- 
Air.  Van  Cyler's,  mamma— is  thriUingly  interesting.  Send 
Susan.  '  ° 

"  Aunt  Helen,"  cries  Sydney,  starting  up,  "  let  me  go.  I  will 
match  your  fringe,  and  deliver  your  other  messages  with  pleas- 

Aliss  Katherine  shrugs  her  shoulders,  and  smiles  sarcastically 
behind  her  book.  ^ 

*'  Thank  you,  my  love,  I  cannot  think  of  troubling  you " 

"  It  will  be  no  trouble  ;  I  was  just  meditating  a  walk  on  my 
own  account— my  daily  constitutional,  you  know.  It  will  give 
me  i)leasure  to  be  of  service  to  you." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear  ;  but  if  my  daughter  thinks  she  can  set 
nie  at  dehance  after  this  fashion,  she  is  mistaken.  "  Kathe- 
rine,'  and  the  cold  blue  eyes  light  and  Hash,  "put  down  that 
book  this  instant,  and  do  as  1  command  you." 

"  When  my  mammy  takes  that  tone,"  says  Katherine,  with 
in  perturbable  good  temper,  and  addressing  her  remark  placidly 
to  Sydney,  "  I  know  better  than  to  disobey.  Let  us  see— match 
the  fringe— order  the  ices— see  to  the  flowers.  But  the  confec- 
tioner s  and  the  fringe  stores  are  at  opposite  ends  of  the  town- 
can  t  do  both  in  one  short,  dark  November  afternoon.  On^  of 
tliein  must  go,  dearest  mother." 

"  You  and  Sydney  can  go  to  (Jreenstalk's  from  here,  then  she 
can  walk  over  to  Sixth  Avenue  and  match  the  fringe,  while  you 


m:I 


H 


'  M 


284        A  BASKET  OF  FLOWERS  AND  A  DINNER. 

take  a  car  and  visit  Fretoni's,"  rapidly  and  concisely,  says  Mrs, 


M 


.icgrcgor 
What 


a  business  like  head  this  mater  of  ours  has,  Sydney  ! 
Tause,  wonder,  and  admire.  Very  well,  A  rs.  Macgregor — you 
shall  be  obeyed  to  the  letter ;  but  what  a  pang  it  costs  nic  to 
give  up  Van  Cyler's  novel !  There  are  times  when  even  filial 
duty  is  a  painful  thing." 

Mrs.  Macgregor's  brow  cleared.  Sydney  laughed.  Kathe- 
rine's  habitual  manner  of  cheerful  impertinence  to  her  rnotiier 
at  times  startled,  at  times  amused  her.  Real  impertinence  the 
girl  did  not  mean,  but  this  vapid  surface  manner  had  become 
second  nature.  The  young  girls  started  forth  together.  Sydney 
with  her  seal  jacket  buttoned  across  her  chest,  and  a  tall  black 
hat  and  i)lume.  The  day  was  cold,  gray,  and  overcast — windy, 
dusty,  and  supremely  unpleasant. 

"  I  feel  like  the  little  boy  who  thought  it  was  such  a  delight- 
ful thing  to  be  an  orphan,  and  do  as  he  liked,"  says  Katherine, 
bending  before  a  windy  gust.  "  Poor  mamma,  she  works  and 
worries,  toils  and  troubles,  year  in,  year  out,  for  Dick,  and  me, 
too." 

"  When  you  are  Mrs.  Vanderdonck,  the  wife  of  the  million- 
aire, you  will  be  able  to  do  as  you  please,  with  a  whole  regiment 
of  lackeys  to  fly  at  their  lady's  bidding." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that.  A  millionaire  old  Vanderdonck 
is,  that  is  historical  :  and  that  he  rntendb  to  ask  me  to  marry 
him,  I  am  also  quite  certain  ;  but  about  the  lackeys  and  the 
liberty  I  have  my  doubts.  He  is  stingy  as  a  miser,  jealous  as 
a  Turk,  relentless  as  a  Nero,  his  inward  man  as  hideous  as  his 
outward.  What  a  happy  destiny  will  be  mine  as  Mrs.  Vander- 
donck !  " 

'•  Don't  marry  him,  Katherine." 

"  And  go  to  the  dogs  with  mamma  and  Dick  ?  We  are  over 
head  and  ears  in  debt,  Sydney,  and  nothing  short  of  this  mar- 
riage can  save  us.  I  actually  wonder  that  mannna's  frisette 
does  not  turn  gray  with  all  the  struggling  she  has  to  keep  up 
appearances.  1  owe  it  to  her  to  tide  her  over  these  troubled 
waters.  Vanderdonck,  miser  as  he  is,  shall  pay  my  price  to 
the  last  farthing  before  he  puts  the  ring  on  my  finger.  It  shall 
be  a  clear  matter  of  money  from  first  to  last.  He  shall  give 
his  written  bond  to  pay  mamma's  debts,  and  settle  five  or  six 
thousand  a  year  on  n.ie,  or  he  shall  never  call  me  wife  If  1 
must  be  sold,  I  shall  fetch  as  good  a  price  as  I  can." 
Sydney  shuddered. 


h 


:ly,  says  Mrs, 

has,  Sydney  I 

:grcgor — you 

costs  me  to 

in  even  filial 

led  Kathe- 
)  her  mother 
irtinence  the 
had  become 
her.  Sydney 
a  tall  blacic 
cast — windy, 

ch  a  delight- 
s  Katherine, 
e  works  and 
ick,  and  me, 

the  million- 
ole  regiment 

^lnderdonck 
ne  to  marry 
eys  and  the 
r,  jealous  as 
leous  as  his 
Irs.  Van  der- 


ive are  over 

of  this  mar- 

na's  frisette 

>  to  keep  up 

ese  troubled 

niy  price  to 

pr.     It  shall 

e  shall  give 

e  five  or  six 
,.,;fo       1  f  i 


A  BASKET  OF  FLOWERS  AND  A  DINNER.         285 

« It  is  horrible.     It  seems  to  mc  I  would  go  out  as  a  shoo 

g.rl,  asa  servant,  sweep  a  crossing,  starve,  sooner  than  tluvt.' '  ^ 

Vts,   1  daresay,"    Miss  Macgregor  retorts,  cooUv  •   '<  -irli 

people  always  say  that.     They  wo\iI<!  work  their  fingers  to'     e 

bone,  starve  die    sooner  than  degrade  themselves.     Unhappi  v 

fh^v  H     •  "'g''t' o"-  >vnte  a  novel  and  become  famous,  as 

they  do  m  books.  Starvation  wculd  not  agree  with  me  I  am 
some  h.ng  of  an  epicure,  as  you  n,ay  have  notice  ,  and  dyh  g 
-ah  !  dy  ng  ,s  somethmg  I  never  want  to  think  of.  h/n  y 
place  belle  cousuie,  you  would  be  as  heartless,  as  mercena  v 

VaSllrdoS""  '  ""•     '"   "^  ^^^^^  ^«"  ^^-'^^  '"-y  "'^ 
"  Never  ! " 

curious Wlit^'ll  ^"'■^.rF'"  P»'-«.»es  Katie,  a  hard,  cold  look, 
curiously  like  her  mother's,  crossing  her  face  and  ageing  it  •  "i 

hans  '  b,  t  r'  '"'•"■•^^^  °^  ^''-^^^'  -^'^y  ^weetest'luxury  'pe- 
can fall   n  1^  '"\k  ''  r'  '°  I"  ''^""g*^^  «^-     You  can  afford  it, 

a   prh  ce      Oh  T<    f  ^'T'  '^  y""  ^'^°«^<^'  ^"^^  t"^"  him  into 

a   printe.     Oh !    Sydney  !   cousin    mine,  what  a  lucky  vouns? 

woman  you  are.     This  is  Mr.  Creenstalk' s."  ^  ^     ^ 

J-askets  and  bouquets  littered  the  counters  and  perfumed  the 

P^t""   A'dri'^  '^"^^"\"^  ^'^^  ^^''^"•^'  ^'^"''-  stood  round  in 
h?;,nor     /         "/  attendance  behind  the  counter,  waiting  on 
the    ne  customer  the  shop  contained,  a  gentleman  bending  over 
some  curious  foreign  plant,  his  back  towards  them.  ^ 

What  a  lovely  basket !  "  says  Katherine.    -  Look,  Sydney  " 

flower?'/  '"Ir"  '^'',  ^"''^^^^'  ^"^'^  ^'  "^'•i^^^  "«-'  "f  Purest  wli^  e 
la7a  c  Ird  hn  '''  .f  •  "'f  '^'^^  }^VOn\c^^,  stephanods.  On  top 
-  Wmi  T  '  '"?  ?•'  '"S^^"'^  '"  P^"^"'  '-^"^^  •"  ^  '"^n's  writing  : 
mlh  ''•  ,^-  •    ^"^^  ^^'^^^h^'"-  ^'^^  '^^^'^'^1  struck  her  as  t 

lo  tnCr"!S  /"V",'''"  '.""^  view  of  the  man,  Miss  MacGreg- 
goMurned,  and  looked  curiously  at  him.  ^ 

reco.mT.Vr"?'H  '''"•'"'f"'  '!'f  ^''^^  thing,"  says  a  voice  she 

cS  h .  I  •^^' •  ''  "'^  ''^'^^^'■^'^  '  ^"^^  y^  ^i»  fasten  the 
caid  1  have  laid  on  it  among  the  flowers.     Dc.^  ;  fail  " 

All  right,  sir;  it  sliall  go  the  fust  thing  to-morrow,"  cheer 
fully  resj.onds  the  lady  in  waiting.  ' 

sees  UiTl'.'ll^^f''^-''i  f^f  J^^therine;  and  Sydney  looks,  and 

f,v?     1    ^'^  '.ff'"  a"^'  fl^'^'-k  face  of  ],ewis  Nolan.     He  nn.l.e.  a 

it  nn    1         ^  tiie  shopwoman,  buttons  up  his  overcoat,  and 

al  tloohTl''''^'"^^"'"'  ^"'^  ^"'"'-'^  ""^  without  casting 
a  last  look  at  his  purchase,  or  a  first  look  at  the  two  ladies  be^ 


3! 

1.^ 


286         A  BASKET  OF  FLOWERS  AND  A  DINNER, 


I    i 


;ilf 


\ 

■■  t 

' 

\ 

side  it.  "  T-cwis  Nolan,  iioot  as  a  church  mouse,  spending  five 
dollars  for  (lowers  !  "  exclaims  Katherine,  aghast.  "  Now  what 
does  this  mean  ?  " 

"  You  need  not  look  at  me.  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,"  an- 
swers Sytlney,  laughing.  "  Mr.  Nolan  shows  very  good  taste 
in  his  selection — that  is  the  only  opinion  1  have  on  the  subject." 

"With  love,"  pursues  Katherine,  "and  the  first  thing  to- 
morrow morning.  Whom  can  they  be  for  ?  Sydney,  I  shall 
ask." 

"  Katie  !  "   cries  Sydney,  indignantly. 

"  No,  1  shall  not.  Mut  whom  can  they  be  for  !  Is  he  really 
in  love  with  that  horrid  Mrs.  Ilarland?" 

"Are  you  concerned  in  knowing,  dear?  Mr.  Nolan  would 
feel  flattered  if  he  were  aware  how  deep  is  your  interest  in  him." 

"Mr.  Nolan  would  not  feel  in  the  slightest  degree  tlattered. 
Vanity,  the  predominant  weakness  of  his  sex,  is  not  his  weak- 
ness, liut  he  cannot  be  as  poor  as  I  imagined  if  he  can  aftord 
to  spend  five  dollars  in  flowers." 

"  Under  the  inlluence  of  the  tender  passion  a  man  may  be 
extravagant  to  the  extent  of  five  dollars,  and  still  be  pardoned," 
says  Miss  Owenson. 

The  llower  woman  approaches,  Miss  Macgregor  gives  her  va- 
rious orders  for  the  day  after  to  morrow,  which  are  duly  tran- 
scribed in  black  and  white,  and  the  two  girls  depart. 

"I  wonder  \\\\o  the  ilowers  are  for!"  is  Miss  Macgregor's 
thoughtful  remark  as  they  reach  the  street.  "  Sydney,  your  fiis- 
tidicnis  notions  are  deciiledly  in  the  way.  I've  a  good  mind  to 
go  back  and  ask." 

Sydney  laughs  outright,  then  stops,  and  blushes,  for  a  gen- 
tleman, api)roaching  ra[)idly,  lifts  his  hat,  with  a  smile.  It  is 
Mr.  Nolan. 

"  Quand  on  parle  du  diable "  begins  Miss  Macgregor,  in 

execrable  French,  and  with  unruffled  coolness.  "  We  were  just 
talking  of  you.  We  saw  you  in  Cireenstalk's,  ordering  flowers, 
but  you  never  deigned  to  notice  us." 

"  What  unpardonable  blindness  1 "  answers  the  gentleman. 
"  I  am  on  my  way  back  to  Greenstalk's  ,  I  fo/got  one  of  my 
gloves." 

"  Your  floral  taste  is  excellent,  Mr.  Nolan,"  says  Katherine, 
mischievously.     "Your  big  bouquet  is  beautiful." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  Yes,  it  is  prettv.  She  i^reft-rs  white 
flowers.     Cold,  is  it  not,"  says  Mr.  Nolan,  "for  November?" 

"  You  dine  with  us,  do  you  not,  on  Friday  evening  ?  "  inquires 


^  BASKET  0,'  FLOWERS  AMD  A  Drf/NEK.         287 

sav!;  Mi"  ""m  "'''''''  '''"  '•  ?^  '"  ^^"  '"  ^^''-  ^ 'HilKun's,  it  seems  " 
^u^      T^    ^^^^'''  ''"'^  her  most  effective  and  be  t-,,rac   Si 
poll.     'I    insist  upon  your   coming.     That   stuuid    trhl  wVi 
«urely  take  no  harm  fc.r  being  laid  aside  one  eve  ing  "  ""' 

saine-!!'^"   """^'   ""''    ^''^'   ^    -"   ^-^  ^-teful;   all   the 

;;:p:-n:^ 

j     I'  You  will  come  ?  "  asks  Kathorine. 

1  hen  he  was  gone,  and    the   cousins  go   on  their  wiv    in 
silence  for  a  moment   silence  broken  first  by  Sydney         ^  ^' 

U  hat  a  great  deal  of  coaxing  your  Mr   Nolm  m1.mc      v  • 
<lcn..y   .he   honor   of  his   p.-seLl-   ,   ,'.0.  t'l' t lu,/ii:: 

irl:,"'';'; -.f ""  ■"'^' '" ""  ™'"-  ^-1  <■-  a  ...on,;;,,,  .hi;"-^ 

ity'? '"hinkrMr^  Noi^r  "Ir^'^eor  .,.ean  l.y  hor  new  cor.lial- 
"yr     ininks  Mr.  Nolan,  rather  ungraciously.     "An  inviniion 

."    Z'clfon",'"  ""  ^■-e4''-..-'ion  isluo:    h  ra 

he,<hcl  no.  „,ean  ^f iss  .Vla^rel'"     """-'  '  '^  •' "     '"" 

Ihe  consins  ,.ar.e<l  a.  the  junc.ion  of  liroadwair  and  firnn.l 
St..et,  Kather,ne   to  go  across   .own,  Sy.lneyTo  seek  Sv 
Wenue,  and  n.a.ch  the  fringe.     This  wis  a  .edim,s  pr<^e„  ai 

ic  u  was  con.  luded.     1^ earless  in  most  thin-rs   Svdnev  v.-f- 
ateS'r,  "?,'■■'"«""'  '"""'^  '"  'l'-°r«.so  /c^; 

'iKt.l   nigllt-tall,  and   hai  ed  ;i  n^c  n.r  r  ir    u'liiV-l,     K     1  ,K 

mil  car,  which  she  knew  would 


y  her  to  within  a  couple  of  blocks  of  h 


'I'he  car  was  filled,  not  a  vacan 


iomt 


gentleman  sprang  up  as  if  galvanised  at  si^^ht 


seat,  but  a  very  youthful 


■fi 


of  a  beautiful 


^i 


888 


A  BASKET  OF  FLOWERS  AND  A  DINNER. 


\     i 


1'       \ 


i 

\ 

\  ^''\ 

W'ii- 

%,.  ; 

young  lady,  and  with  a  sniile  and  a  littlo  bow  Sydney  tliankfnlly 
t()(}k  his  place.  At  the  next  corner  th'  car  again  stopped,  and 
an  cUlerly  woman,  with  a  large  and  heavy  market  basket  on 
her  ami,  g<jt  in.  She  looked  tired,  and  proceeded  to  hang  her- 
self uj)  by  the  strap.  The  double  row  of  men  glanced  over  the 
tops  of  their  papers,  saw  only  an  old  woman,  rather  shabby  of 
as|)ect,  and  dived  l)ack  again.  Jv/jdently  she  was  to  be  allowed 
to  stand,  and  Sydney  reaU^ing  it,  arose  and  proffered  her 
place. 

•'  Oh,  no,  thank  you — no,"  the  woman  said.  **  I  could  not 
think  of  it,  my  dear  young  lady.     Keep  your  seat." 

"You  are  tired  and  I  am  not;  1  don'i  mind  standing. 
Oblige  nie  by  sitting  down." 

"'I'hank  you,  I  am  tired,"  the  woman  said,  with  a  sigh  of  re- 
lief, sinking  down  ;  but  it's  too  bad  to  make  you  stand." 

"  I  have  not  far  to  go  ;  that  is,  I  think  not.  How  far  is  it  to 
th  street  ?  " 

"  Fully  fifteen  blocks  ;  too  long  for  you  to  stand,  I  ought  not 
to  have  taken  your  seat." 

"  1  won't  have  to  stand;  just  wait  and  see,"  whispered  Syd- 
ney, with  an  arch  smile  ;  and  u;.  she  said  it  the  man  beside  the 
old  lady  got  up,  with  a  bashful  "  Here,  miss,"  and  suspended 
hiujself  m  mid-air. 

"Did  I  not  tell  you?"  says  Sydney,  with  a  subdued  laugh. 
"  Virtut.  is  its  own  reward." 

"  An,  it  is  a  fine  thing  to  be  young  and  handsome,"  answers 
her  new  acquaintance. 

Miss  Owenson  glanced  at  her  and  made  up  her  mind  that 
she  must  have  been  handsome  in  her  day,  also.  It  was  a  kindly 
and  matronly  face,  with  dark,  gentle  eyes,  and  snow-white 
liair. 

"  Tell  me,  please,  when  we  get  to th  street,"  Sydney 

said.  "  I  am  almost  a  stranger  in  New  York,  and  don't  want 
to  get  belated.  What  uncomfortable  conveyances  these  street 
cars  are." 

She  chatted  with  her  chance  acquaintance  until  her  street  was 
reached,  then  with  a  smiling  "  good-bye,"  got  out  and  walked 
rapidly  into  Madison  Avenue,  and  her  aunt's  house. 

On  J''riday  night  Mrs.  Macgregor  gave  a  dinner  party  for  the 
special  delectation  of  Mr.  Vanderdonck.  There  were  but 
seven  or  eight  guests  in  all,  and  Mr.  Nolan  made  one  of  the 
number. 

"  Although,  really,  what  you  want  to  ask  that  young  man  for, 


Incy  tliankfully 
II  stoppccl,  aiul 
kot  baskot  on 
;d  to  hang  licr- 
inccil  over  the 
her  shal)l)y  of 
)  to  bo  allowed 
[)rot"ferc(l   her 

'*  I  could  not 
t." 
iiind  standing. 

th  a  sigh  of  re- 
stand." 
low  far  is  it  to 

id,  I  ought  not 

whispered  Syd- 
iian  beside  the 
and  suspended 

subdued  laugh. 

jome,"  answers 

her  mind  that 
It  was  a  kindly 
nd  snow-white 

treet,"  Sydney 
and  don't  want 
;es  these  street 

I  her  street  was 
Lit  and  walked 

ISO. 

tr  i^arty  for  the 
lerc  were  but 
ade  one  of  the 


A  BAHK-rr  OF  Fr.OII'KKS  Am  a  DWJVf.K.        280 

^•,:::r,:;'::::;r^ lM^^Slri-vsl■ r 

y..u  waul  hi,.,  for,  K.uhcriue  "  '  '  ''^"  '  '^*^'  ^^'^^^ 

"  Poor,  dear  nianiiiia !     Well     nfv.»r  n,;..  1         1  i      -. 

.houHa,KU  year  a,e  ..,„cd  o„  ,,';.    r:,,       i L^  tf"f„*,'ir,''r 

M  ss  Macgrogor  cc-rtainly  <li<l  ifi,,  „.illi  Mr    N„  ,  ,    J  T 

never  seeii.ed  tu  livr  '  ''"'  ■  "'"-"   «'"versation 

hear  him."  '  '^  ^  positive  pleasure  to 

"  And  if  .nny  painter  ih"\v  her 
He  would  i,aint  her  unaware. 
With  a  halo  round  her  h.air." 

KaSe  MTcg;;!o;.'.'.'^  '"  '°  "■^'  ""^  ''-«'"-  "f  'he  ear.l,, 


^^oung  man  for, 


If    17 


1!     ■ 


11' 

ni  '* 

¥■    " 

'1" 

¥i 

i 

)i 

h 


h 


1 


2< 


90 


A   LONG  TALK  AND  A  LITTLE    WALK. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A   LONG   TALK   AND   A   LIITLE   WALK, 

HE  dinner  was  a  pleasant  affair,  and  my  chat  with  Mr. 
NcCmost  agrclable,  but,  after  all,  I  doubt  whether 
the  came  was  worth  the  candle.'  i    .  ,v  .^ 

_ .       u 7vii.s  Owenson  makes  the  remark,  and  makes  it  to 

herself  alone.    She  holds  up  to  view  at  the  same  time  a  mass  ot 
rich  Ch^ntlly  lace,  woefully  torn  and  rent.     On  Inday  night 
h     it  V  as  the  costly  appendage  of  a  silken  robe   upon  which  a 
masculine  boot  heel  hal  accidentally  trodden,  with  the  aforesaid 

''Tt  i;  the  afternoon  of   Monday,  and  with  the  exception  of 
Uncle  (irif,  Miss  Owenson  is  quite    alone  in  that  coziest  apart- 
nient  of  the  Macgregor   hoi.e,  ^1-  ^annly  .Umg^oc.!.     H^ 
amit  and  cousin  are   out  making  calls,  m  wmch   .oual  ma.tyr 
dom  she  hr,s  declined  participating. 

■'  1  nni  t  have  it  mended,"  tliinks  Miss  Owenson  ;  "  but  who 
is  to  do  it?     Experts  in  lace   work  are  rare,  I  tancy,  m  Mew 

^^^^^ai;;!;;^^^  n:::;;:;:,my  dear   Miss  Sydney?"  inquires 

^^^^t^^:^::^:::::^^^  then  ?  >-  says 

Sydney,  laughing.      "This  is  the  'matter,"   she    holds   up   tlie 
KrL^e  rent  "not  a  matter  of  life  or  dcatli,  you  see. 

'^Ah  !  torn,"  says  Uncle  Grif,  in  profound  sympathy.    "What 

"'"'f.;:i'a  flounce,  and  will  be  again  if  I  can  S^nt  mendoT; 

"  Are  you  going  to  do  it  yourself,  Miss  bydney  ?  asks  Uncle 
r.rif  T.nd  his  dull  eves  light  suddenly. 

.:^TlV^\^y^\l^  Miss  Owenson.  "I  never  did  anything 
half  so  useful  in  my  life.  This  lace  belonged  to  poor  mamma 
!l!sh"wore  it  when  a  girl,  and  it  is  a  souvenir,  so  ot  more  value 

'^t^:^^  Grifs  dull  eyes  grows  brighter,   and 


niuie  eager 


<•  Mi  :  Sydney,"  he  says,  "/  know  a  pe.son-^a  lady  who  w 

,nen  1     nt    or  you.     She  makes  lace  -and   enibroulery   and  al 

r;       SI  e  was  educated  in  a  convent,  and  does  the  loveliest 


1 


A  LONG  TALK  AND  A   LITTLE   WALK. 


291 


with  Mr. 
;  whether 

akes  it  to 
1  mass  of 
day  night 
n  whicli  a 
aforesaid 

eption  of 
icst  apart- 
jiu.  Her 
al  niartyr- 

"hut  who 
y,  in  New 

"  inquires 

icn  ?  "  says 
(Is  up  the 

y.    "What 

;  mended." 
isks  Uncle 

Id  anything 
lor  mamma 
more  vahie 

iLfhter,   and 

,dy  wlio  will 
cry,  and  all 
he  loveliest 


1 


f 


needlework  you  ever  saw.     If  you'll  come  with  me  I'll  take 
you  to  her,  and  you  can  ascertain  for  yourself." 

"  Uncle  (irif,  you  are  a  houseliold  treasure  !  "  exclaims  Syd- 
ney, rolling  up  her  lace,  and  rising.  "  Wait  ten  minutes,  and 
I  will  be  with  you." 

She  makes  a  parcel  of  her  torn  Chantilly,  hastily  arrays  her- 
self for  the  street,  and  sallies  forth  under  the  protecting  wing 
of  Uncle  Grif.  That  amiable  old  gentleman's  face  beams  with 
delight. 

"We  will  take  a  Sever.Hi  Avenue  car.  You  don't  mind 
taking  a  car,  do  you,  Miss  Sydney  ?  " 

"  Decidedly  not.  Uncle  Grif.     Why  on  earth  should  I  ?  " 

"Katie  does;  that  is  all.  One  has  to  ride  with  such  a 
motley  assembly  of  the  Great  Unwashed— that  is  what  she 
says." 

"  Katie  says  more  than  she  means  ;  you  must  not  take  her 
literally.  There  is  nothing  I  enjoy  more  than  riding  m  those 
city  street  cars,  and  watching  the  different  jihases  of  the  human 
face  divine.  It  is  quite  a  new  experience  to  me.  Wiio  is  the 
— the  lady  who  does  the  lace  work  ?  " 

"A  most  respectable  person,  Miss  Sydney.  Oh,  a  most 
respectable  person,"  cries  Uncle  Griff,  eagerly. 

"  Of  course,"  Sydney  answers  ;  "  that  goes  without  saying, 
since  you  are  t  '  nig  me  to  her.  But  what  is  she,  maid  or  ma 
tron,  wife  or  w.    ^w  ?" 

"A  widow  lady  and  her  daughter  ;  there  are  two.  Once  she 
was  well  off,  and  she  's  a  i)erson  of  cul^ue  and  refinement. 
They  are  poor  now,  a'.  ,  she  ekes  out  her  income  by  doing  fme 
needlework  for  ladies,  and  for  fancy  stores." 

They  are  riding  up  town  now,  and  as  Miss  Owenson  does  not 
fancy  conversation  at  the  pitch  at  which  it  nuist  be  carried  on 
in  a  street-car,  she  relapse:  into  silence,  and  watches  with  never- 
ilaLTtiinsj  interest  and  amusement  the  people  who  perpetually 
get  in  and  out. 

Presently  their  own  turn  comes,  and  they  walk  three  or  four 
blocks  westward,  and  stop  at  last  before  a  two-story  wooden 
house,  sadly  in  want  of  paint.  A  tiny  plot  of  grass  is  in  front ; 
there  are  tlowers  in  all  the  windows,  Miss  Owenson  notices, 
and  augurs  well  therefrom.  Uncle  Grif  knocks  with  his  knuckles, 
and  this  ])rimitive  summons  is  answered  immediately.  An 
elderly  woman  oi^ens  the  door,  smiles  ui)on  Uncle  Grit,  and 
glances  at  his  companion.  Then  there  is  a  simultaneous  cxcla- 
niaiion. 


I' 


292 


A  LONG  TALK'  AND  A  LITTLE    WALK". 


:\ 


"  My  dear  young  lady  ! " 

"  My  dear  old  lady  !"  Sydney  wa.s  on  the  point  of  saying,  but 
substituted  "niadaiu;"  and  Uncle  Grif  ga/es  agape  from  one 
to  the  other. 

"Why,  you're  not  acquainted  already,  are  you  ?"  he  asks. 

'*  We  met ;  'twas  in  a  crowd,"  laughs  Sydney  ;  "  we  met  by 
chance  the  usual  way,  last  week,  Uncle  Orif,  in  a  car.  Really 
it  is  (piite  a  coincidence." 

"  Come  in,"  says  the  mistress  of  the  house,  and  ushers  them 
into  the  tiniest,  the  trimmest  little  parlor  Miss  Owenson  has 
ever  seen  out  of  a  doll's  house.  A  Hower-stand  filled  with  i)ots 
is  in  each  window  ;  muslin  curtains,  delicately  embroidered, 
drai)ed  them  ;  a  little  upright  piano,  its  keys  yellowed  by  time, 
covered  with  music,  stands  in  a  corner  ;  one  or  two  oil  chromos 
and  steel  engravings,  in  home-made  rustic  frames,  hung  on  the 
papered  walls  ;  books  in  profusion  litter  the  centre-table.  The 
chairs  are  cane,  the  carpet  old  and  faded,  but  the  little  room  is 
so  sunny,  so  sweet,  so  dainty,  that  it  is  a  positive  pleasure  to 
be  in  it. 

"  People  who  have  seen  better  days,  decidedly,"  Miss  Owen- 
son  infers,  taking  all  this  in  with  one  comi^rehensive  feminine 
glance.     ''What  a  7'ery  nice  face  the  old  lady  has." 

''Will  you  not  introduce  this  young  lady,  Mr.  (ilenn  ?"  says 
the  mistress  of  the  house,  as  she  places  chairs.  "  We  have  met 
before,  and  the  young  lady  did  me  a  favor,  but  I  have  nqt  the 
pleasure  of  knowing  her  name." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  1 — 1  forgot  to  introduce  you,"  Uncle 
Grif  responds  in  his  llurried,  nervous  way.  "This  is  Miss 
Owenson,  Mrs.  Nolan— Miss  Sydney  Owenson.  And  this  is 
my  old  friend,  Mrs.  Nolan,  Miss  Sydney." 

"Nolan,"  thinks  Sydney,  a  little  startled. 

«iyou — you  know  Lewis,  you  know  ?"  continues  Uncle  Grif, 
apologetically  to  Sydney.  "  This  is  his  mother.  She— -she  is 
acquainted  with  your  son,  Mrs.  Nolan,  and — and  her  lace  is  torn, 
and  I  made  her  bring  it  here  to  have  it  mended." 

Uncle  (irif  pulls  out  his  handkerchief  and  wipes  his  forehead, 
very  much  ui)set  at  finding  himself  master  of  the  ceremonies, 
even  on  this  small  scale.  Mrs.  Nolan  looks  at  her  fair  visitor 
with  a  pleased  smile. 

"  You  have  met  my  son,  Miss  Owenson  ?  " 

"  More  than  once,'madame.  lint  I  had  not  the  slightest  idea, 
I  assure  vou,"  says  Miss  (jwenson,  blushing  suddenly,  "that  in 


coming  here- 


A  LONG    TALK  AND  A   LITTLE  WALK'. 


293^ 


*'  Didn't  I  tell  you  it  was  T-cwis'  mother?"  says  Uncle  Grif, 
looking  surprised.  "  No,  by-the-by,  1  believe  I  didn't.  She 
tore  her — what  was  it,  Miss  Sydney  ?  Oh,  her  llounce,  and  I 
asked  her  to  bring  it  here,  and  let  you  mend  it.  You  can  mend 
it,  V  '\  know,  Mrs,  Nolan  ?  " 

■  ,  will  be  able  to  tell  better  when  I  see  it,"  Mrs.  Nolan  an- 
sv.t  i  ;  and  Sydney  unwraps  her  parcel  and  hands  it  to  her, 
feeling  oddly  nervous  herself. 

Lewis  Nolan's  mother— Lewis  Nolan's  home — she  looked  at 
both  with  new  and  strong  interest.  That  was  his  piano, 
those  his  books — how  refined  everything  was  in  its  iwverty. 
What  was  the  sister  like,  the  girl  wondered.  Mrs.  Nolan  took 
the  torn  lace  to  the  window  and  examined  it  with  the  admiring 
and  appreciative  eye  of  a  connoisseur  in  laces. 

"What  exquisite  Chantilly — what  a  beautiful  pattern — what 
a  pity  it  should  be  torn.  I  never  saw  a  lovelier  piece  of  lace  — 
it  must  be  very  valuable."* 

"  It  is,"  Sydney  answered  ;  "but  its  chief  value,  in  my  eyes, 
is  that  it  belonged  to  my  dear  mother.  Can  you  mend  it,  Mrs. 
Nolan  ? "  Uncle  Grif  assures  me  you  work  miracles  with 
your  needle." 

"  My  eyes  are  very  bad  for  fine  work,  particularly  black  ;  but 
Lucy  can,  I  am  positive.  Lucy  is  my  daughter,  Miss  Owen- 
son,  and  very  proficient  in  lace  work.  She  is  an  invalid,  and 
cannot  come  down-stairs,  but  I  will  bring  it  up,  and  show  it  to 
her,  if  you  like." 

"Cannot  Miss  Sydney  go  up  too  ?"  cries  Uncle  Grif,  in  his 
eager  way.     "  1 — I  should  be  glad  to  have  her  know  Lucy." 

"  And  Lucy  will  be  very  glad  to  know  her,"  says  Mrs.  Nolan 
gently,  "  if  you  will  come  up,  my  dear  Miss  Owenson ■" 

Sydney  rises  at  once  ;  that  strong  feeling  of  profound  inter- 
est still  ujjon  her,  and  follows  Mrs.  Nolan  up  a  little  tlight  of 
steep  stairs  to  an  upi)er  landing  off  which  three  small  rooms 
open.  The  door  of  each  stands  open  ;  they  are  all  bed  cham- 
bers, all  spotless  and  tasteful,  one  the  mother's,  one  the  son's, 
the  young  lady  decides,  and  this  front  one  the  invalid  daugh- 
ter's. Sydney  i)auses  a  moment  on  the  threshold  and  takes  in 
the  picture.  The  green  carpet  on  the  lloor,  the  small  white 
bed  in  the  corner,  the  two  pictures  that  hang  near  it—"  Ecce 
Homo,"  and  "Mater  Dolorosa," — a  trailing  Irish  ivy  filling  one 
window,  roses  and  geraniums  the  other.  The  same  nuislin 
draperies  as  downs-tairs,  a  large  photograph  of  Lewis  Nolan's 
strong  face  and  thoughtful  forehead  over  the  mantel ;  a  table 


i 


294 


A   1  OyC    TALK  AND  A   LITTLE    WALK:. 


■  \  ' . 

. 

'1, 

i 

with  a  family  15il>le  and  one  or  two  otlicr books  of  a  grave  na- 
ture, iu(lL;inir  by  llvjir  bindin-^;,  and— a  little  thrill  goes  through 
Svdney  us  she  sees  it— a  liasket  of  ])ure  while  llowers  that  a 
few  days  ago  graced  tlie  c.ouiiler  of  (ireenstalks.  'I'his,  then, 
is  the  ladydove  for  who'u  the  young  lawyer  si)ends  his  money. 
Mr.  Nolan  rises  in  one  second  to  a  jilace  in  Miss  Owenson's 
regard,  which  it  might  else  have  taken  him  months  to  attain.  _ 

She  looks  from  the  room  to  its  occupant  with  ever-growing 
interest.  In  a  great  invalid  chair  she  sits,  no  girl— a  woman  of 
thirty  evidentlv,  so  slight,  so  fragile,  so  bloodless,_that  the  thin 
flice  and  hands  seem  almost  transparent.  But  it  is  the  sweet- 
est face,  Sydney  thinks,  her  eye  s  have  ever  looked  on,  with  an 
expression  so  gentle,  so  i)atient,  so  womaidy,  that  her  heart  is 
taken  captive  at  a  glance.  There  is  a  subtle  likeness  to  the 
brother  in  the  sister,  the  same  dark,  deep  eyes,  the  same 
thoughtful  brow,  the  same  cast  of  feature.  Only  the  some- 
what stern  mouth  of  the  young  man  is  soft  and  tender  ni  the 
woman,  and  the  likeness  makes  the  contrast  between  them 
more  marked  and  palhetic~he,  the  very  type  and  embodimeiit 
of  i)erfect  health,  strong  and  nianly  vigor— she,  with  death,  it 
seems  to  Sydney,  already  imprinted  on  her  face. 

"  Lucy,"  Mrs.  Nolan  says,  "this  is  Miss  Owenson._  She  has 
brought  "some  lace  to  be  repaired,  and  Mr.  Glenn,  with  his  cus- 
tomaiy  kindness,  recommended  us." 

"Miss  Owenson?"  Lucy  Nolan's  face  lights  up.  "The 
Miss  Owenson  who  resides  with  Mrs.  Macgregor  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Macgregor  is  my  relative- yes." 

How  much  the  sister  resembles  her  brother,  Sydney  thinks, 
when  siie  smiles,  and  where— where  has  she  seen  Lucy  Nolan 
before  ?  In  a  moment  it  tlashes  upon  her.  Idealized,  and  as 
this  sick  woman  may  have  looked  ten  years  ago,  her  face  is  the 
l)ictured  face  of  "  The  little  Sister." 

"  Evidently  Monsieur  von  Ette  derives  his  inspiration  from 
this  familv,"  thinks  Miss  Owenson,  amused.  "That  is  a  very 
good  likeness  of  Mr.  Lewis,  over  the  mantel.  That  strong, 
dark  face,  and  those  piercing  eyes  of  his  photograph  well." 

"  You  can  do  this,  can't  you,  Lucy?"  says  her  mother,  ex- 
hibiting the  rent ;  and  Lucy  examines  it  in  her  turn  through  a 
pair  of  glasses  with  a  practical  eye. 

"  1  have  to  wear  glasses  at  my  work,"  she  informs  Sydney. 
"  Whit  lovel)-  lace  !  Yes,  1  can  do  this  easily,  and  so  that  the 
mending  will  never  be  known  from  the  original  pattern;  but 
not  this  week.     Are  you  in  a  hurry,  Miss  Owenson?'' 


\ 


i 


A   LONG    TALK  AND  A   LITTLE    WALK. 


295 


"The 


but 


f 


1 1 

I 


"l 


♦*  Not  at  all— next  week,  next  month,  will  do  if  you  like." 
''•Ah!  but   we  don't  like,"   responds  Lucy  Nolan;   "  wc  do 
not  want  to  keej;  a  llounce  worth   a   thousand   dollars   ui    our 
l)t)sscssion  any  longer  than  we  can  help.     I  shall   do  it   early 

next  week."  .  ,,       xt  1 

"  1  must  go  and  see  after  Uncle  Grif,"  says  Mrs.  Nolan, 
leaving  tiie  room.     "  He  is  languishing  in  solitude  down-stairs." 

*«  VVliat  very  lovely  dowers,"  remarks  Miss  Ovvenson.  "  Your 
windows  are  perfect  lloral  bowers,  Miss  Nolan." 

"Yes,  plants  flourish  with  me.  Is  not  that  calla  beautiful? 
My  brother  takes  the  trouble  of  banishing  tiiem  every  night. 
He  has  hygienic  notions  about  their  absorbing  all  the  oxygen 
that  my  poor  lungs  need."  , 

"  Your  brother  is  right.  Yes,  your  calla  lily  is  a  gem.  And 
what  a  superb  ivy.  This,"  Sydney  points  to  the  basket,  "  is  an 
ol  1  acfpiaintance." 

"  Yes,  Lewis  sent  me  that  on  my  birthday.  I  was  one-and- 
thirty  last  Thursday;  and  he  told  me  he  met  you  and  Miss 
Macgregor  at  the  florist's.  1  am  glad  1  have  met  you,  Miss 
Owenson,"  Lucy  s.^ys,  with  a  smile. 

"  1  have  heard  of  you  until  my  curiosity  has  been  strongly 

aroused." 

"  Heard  of  me  ?  "  Sydney  repeats,  her  blue  eyes  opening. 

"  1  never  go  out  ;  it  is  months  since  1  left  this  room,  and 
I^ewis  tries  to  amuse  me  by  telling  me  every  evening  what  goes 
on  in  the  outer  world,  the  i)eoi)le  he  meets,  and  the  sights  he 
sees.     And  he  has  told  me  a  great  deal  about  you." 

"  Luleed,"  says  Miss  Owenson,  coloring. 

"  I  wish  I  might  tell  you  what  he  has  said.  I  wonder  if  you 
would  be  offended,"  laughs  Lucy.  ,  •  1     r 

"  Well,  so  that  it  be  not  very  uncomplimentary  I  think  I 
might  stand  it.  It  is  well  sometimes  to  see  ourselves  as  others 
see  us." 

"  Then  !  you're  not  to  be  offended,  mind  !  He  told  von  btte 
he  had  seen  many  beautiful  faces  in  his  time,  but  never  one  of 
such  ideal  purity  and  nobility,  half  womanly,  half  angelic." 

"  Oh  !  "  Sydney  cries,  "  hush  !  "  The  rose-pink  blush  is  scarlet 
now.  "  If  Mr.  Nolan  had  the  bad  taste  to  say  that,  you  should 
not  have  repeated  it." 

<*  1  apologized  beforehand,  remember.     He  would  be  as  in- 

dignant  as  yourself  if  he  knew  1  had  told.     Von  Ette  says  you 

have  bought  •  Sinlram.'     What  do  you  think  of  the  likeness  ?  " 

"  it  is  a  very  good  one,  if  one  could  imagine  your  brothei 


2Cj6 


A   LONG    TALK  AND  A   LITTLE    WALK'. 


ki 


in  so  (lagic  a  frame  of  iniiul.  So  you  never  go  out  ;  how  sad 
thai  must  be.  You  Icjok  very  ill — too  ill  to  work.  Have  you 
Ijeen  an  invalid  long  ?  " 

•'  For  ten  years,"  said  Lucy  Nolan. 

"  Oh  !  " 

"  I  have  consumi)tion,  as  you  may  see,"  pursued  Miss  Nolan, 
widi  perfect  cheerf^iilness,  "and  complaint  of  the  spine,  Uiat 
chains  nie  to  this  chair.  l>ut  1  am  quite  able  to  work.  Oh,  I 
assure  you,  yes;  and  my  work  and  my  books  are  the  two  chief 
pleasures  of  my  life.  You  don't  know  how  thankful  I  am  to 
be  able  to  work  and  help  mother  and  Lewis,  who  work  so  iiard. 
My  needle  passe*4bf'  days,  and  then  there  are  the  evenings. 
My  sun  rises,  Mi.,s  Owenson,  when  other  people's  set,  for  the 
evening  brings  Lewis  and  Car!  von  Ktte,  and  we  have  music  and 
the  magazines,  and  the  news  of  the  world  outside.  And  1  am 
happy,  1  assure  you.     Oh,  just  as  happy  as  the  days  are  long." 

There  are  tears  in  Sydney's  eyes  as  she  listens  to  the  bright 
voice,  and  looks  in  the  wan  face,  all  drawn  and  palUd  with 
pain. 

"  Ikit  you  must  suffer,  surely — your  face  shows  that." 

"Yes,"  Lucy  says,  and  says  it  still  cheerfully,  "a  little  some- 
times. My  back" — a  spasm  twitches  the  pale  li|)s — "I  suffer 
at  times  with  my  back.  The  worst  of  it  is,  1  have  a  nasty, 
hacking  cough  that  worries  mother  and  Lewis,  and  keeps  theiu 
awake  nights." 

"  It  keeps  you  awake  too,  does  it  not  ?  " 

"Yes,  but  it  doesn't  matter  so  much  about  me.  They  have 
to  work  so  hard  all  day,  that  it  is  too  bad  their  rest  should  be 
broken  by  my  wretched  cough." 

Lucy  Nolan  says  this  with  such  genuine  sympathy  for  them, 
such  genuine  indignation  at  herself,  that  Sydney  smiles,  al- 
though tears  still  stand  in  her  eyes. 

"Are  you  ever  confined  to  bed.  Miss  Nolan?" 

"  Miss  Nolan  ! — how  comical  that  sounds,"  says  the  invalid, 
laughmg.  "  Call  me  Lucy,  please — I  don't  know  myself  by 
any  other  name.  Yes,  1  am  sometimes,  when  my  back  is  vciy 
bad,  and  then  poor  mother  is  nearly  worn  to  death  waiting  on 
me,  and  Lewis  ivill  have  a  doctor  and  expensive  medicines,  say 
what  1  will.  1  am  a  dreadful  drag  on  them  both — all  Lewis 
earns  he  is  obliged  to  spend  on  me.  Ah  I  you  don't  know  how 
good  he  is.  Miss  Owenson.  Night  after  night  he  has  had  to 
wxtch  with  me,  and  toil  all  day  long  at  the  office  after.  He 
would  insist  upon  mother's  going  to  bed,  and  letting  him  take 


f 


\ 


I 

I 


I 


\ 


A  LONG    TALK'  AND  A  LITTLE    IVALK". 


297 


her  place.  The  trouble  of  my  life  is  the  trouble  I  give 
them." 

*' '  Honor  thy  father  and  thy  mother,  that  thou  niayest  be  long- 
lived  upon  the  land,'  "  thinks  Sydney.  "  A  good  son  and  a 
good  brollier.  Mr.  Lewis  is  a  gentleman  and  a  Christian,  and 
1  like  him," 

So  they  sit  and  talk,  and  the  minutes  fly.  Sydney  is  so  vividly 
interested  that  the  afternoon  wanes  and  she  does  not  see  it. 
The  charm  of  manner  that  makes  the  brother  so  agreeable  a 
companion  is  i)ossessed  also  by  the  invalid  sister.  Her  needle 
flies  as  she  talks,  her  eyes  laugh  behind  her  glasses,  she  is  free 
from  i)ain  to-day  and  (juite  happy.  It  is  only  when  Lucy  lay.s 
down  her  work  that  Sydney  sees  the  shadows  of  coming  night 
filling  the  room. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  exclaims,  starting  u])  in  consternation,  "  how  I 
have  lingered.     It  is  nearly  dark.    What  rtv'//  Uncle  Grifsay?" 

"  Uncle  Grif  went  away  half  an  hour  ago,"  says  Mrs.  Nolan, 
entering.  "  1  left  him  to  do  soniething  in  the  kitchen,  and 
when  1  looked  in  again  he  was  gone." 

"  Highly  characteristic  of  Uncle  Grif,"  says  Lucy,  laughing. 
Don't  feel  mortified.  Miss  Owenson,  but  he  forgot  all  about  you 
five  minutes  after  you  were  out  of  his  sight." 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?"  cried  Sydney,  in  despair. 

"  Here  is  Lewis — you  must  let  him  take  you  home,"  says  Mrs. 
Nolan.     "It  is  altogether  too  late  for  )ou  to  venture  alon.." 

The  house  door  opened  and  closed,  a  man's  step  came  two 
or  three  at  a  time  up  the  stairs,  and  I^ewis  Nolan,  "  booted  and 
sjjurred  " — that  is,  in  great  coat  and  hat — stood  in  the  doorway 
aniazedly  contemplating  the  group. 

"  Miss  Owenson  !  " 

The  color  flashed  vividly  into  Sydney's  checks,  but  she  held 
out  her  liand  with  a  nervous  laugh. 

"  You  see  before  you  a  damsel  in  distress,  Mr.  Nolan.  Un- 
cle Grif — perfidious,  like  all  of  his  kind- inveigled  nie  here  and 
then  basely  deserted  me." 

In  a  few  words  Mrs.  Nolan  explained  the  situation,  while 
Sydney  hastily  dievv  on  her  gloves. 

"  You  nuist  permit  me  to  lake  Uncle  Grif 's  i)lace,  of  course," 
said  Lewis  Nolan.  "  His  loss  is  my  gain.  Uncle  Grif  is  to  be 
trusted  no  further  than  you  can  see  him.  If  Y.d  were  a  genins 
he  could  not  be  more  absent  minded." 

"  Stay  for  lea, '  said  Mrs.  Nolan,  hospitably.  *'  The  evening 
IS  cold,  and  a  cu^)  will  warm  you." 


\\ 


l^^r 


'298 


A   LO.VG    TALK  AND  A    LiTTLE    WALK. 


"  Tea  is  my  mother's  panacea  fo:-  all  the  ills  of  life,"  said  Mr. 

Nolan. 

lUit  Sydney  would  not  listen  to  this— she  was  nervously  anxious 
to  reach  home  before  Aunt  Helen  and  Katherine,  and  avoid 
qucstionini;.  So  takini;  the  arm  of  Mr,  Nolan,  Miss  Owenson 
went  forth'into  the  gaslit  highways  of  New  York. 

"Come  again  soon—do,"  pleaded  J.ucy,  at  partmg;  "you 
don't  know  what  a  pleasure  it  will  be  to  me." 

And  Sydney  had  kissed  the  i)atient,  gentle  face,  and  promised. 

"  Your  sister  is  charming,  Mr.  Nolan,"  she  said  ;  she  "  be- 
witched the  hours,  1  believe.     How  patient  she  is,  how  sweet, 

how  good."  ... 

"  JL'oor  Lucy  ! — yes.  I  hope,  among  your  multii)hcity  of 
en-'-ao'ements  you  will  sometimes  steal  an  hour  for  her.  Her 
l)lc^vsures  are  so  few,  her  sufferings  so  great." 

"  She  does  suffer  then  ?     She  would  not  say  so  to  me." 

"  Miss  Owenson,  her  life  for  the  past  ten  years  has  been  one 
long  martyrdom,  and  she  has  borne  it  all  with  patience  angelic. 
She  docs  not  seem  to  think  of  her  own  suffering,  only  of  the 
l)ain  and  trouble  she  gives  us.  Her  hapi)iness  is  in  days  like 
this,  when  she  can  sit  up  and  work,  or  talk  to  a  friend.  So  it 
will  be  a  work  of  charity  if  sometimes " 

"  I  shall  come  often— very  often,"  says  Miss  Owenson.  _'<The 
visits  will  be  a  greater  pleasure  to  me  than  they  can  possibly  be 
to  her.     i  owe  Uncle  Grif  a  debt  of  gratitude  for  having  brought 

me." 

"  In  spite  of  his  heartless  desertion?"  asks  Lewis  Nolan. 
«'  Miss  Owenson,  shall  we  ride  or  walk  ?  The  cars  are  sure  to 
be  crowded  at  th  hour,  and  it  is  doubtful  if  you  will  be  able  to 
get  a  seat.     P.esides,  their  progress  is  so  slow,  with  continual 

stopi»age ■" 

''  I  will  walk  then,"  Miss  Owenson  answers.     "  I  have  no  fancy 
for  bad  atmosphere  and  hanging  susi)ended  in  mid-air.  _   liesides, 
I  am  an  excellent  walker ;  i  have  had  no  end  of  practice  among 
the  Swiss  mountains  and  over  the  Cornish  moors." 
\       "You  have  been  in  Cornwall,  thei:  ?" 

i       "  I'"or   nine   months— and  thought  a  six-mile  walk  between 
breakfast  and  luncheon  a  mere  bagatelle." 

She  pauses  suddenly  with  a  keen  sense  of  i)ain.  There  is 
Miss  Leonard's  letter  to  be  answered,  and  it  flashes  upon  her 
she  can  never  say  "co;ne"  to  Sir  Henry  Leonard.  She  has 
never  been  sure  before,  but  she  is  to-night. 

The  walk  is  aea,  iy  an  liour  long,  and  the  frosty  stars  are  aU 


\ 


\      1^ 


\ 


««  ONE    YELLOW  NEW   YEAR  NIGUT: 


299 


you 


a-twinklc  in  the  November  sky  when  they  reach  the  pahuial 
brown  stone  front,  unci  h;^hls  thish  from  thning-rooni  and  h.ill. 

"  You  will  come  in  ?"  Miss  Owenson  says. 

"Jf  you  will  excuse  me,  no.  I  sliall  bo  bnsy  writing  until 
luiilni'iht.     (loo(lni''IU,  Miss  Owenson." 

He  rings  the  bell,  and  waits  to  see  her  admitted;  then,  wUh 
another  good-nigiu,  Lewis  strides  away. 

"  What  a  long  walk  1  have  given  him,  and  no  doubt  he  is 
tired  enough  already,"  Sydney  thinks. 

••Susan,  have  Mrs.  Macgregor  and  Miss  Katherine  re- 
turned ?  " 

•'  No,  Miss  Sydney,  not  yet." 

•'Dieu  merci  !"  tliinks  Sydney,  running  uj)  to  her  own  room. 
Strangely  enough,  when  they  do  come,  and  all  meet  at  dinner, 
she  says  not  a  word  of  where  she  has  spent  the  afternoon. 

At  ten  o'clock  she  goes  up  to  her  chamber,  but  before  she 
goes  to  bed  she  writes  her  letter.  It  is  rather  a  dillicult  letter 
to  write  ;  but  sirice  it  must  be  written,  why,  the  sooner  the 
better.     Near  the  close  she  says  this  : 

"I  hardly  know  whether  to  be  glad  or  sorry  Sir  Harry  has 
not  sailed  with  the  ex[)edition.  I  am  glad  for  your  sake, 
certainly.  But,  dear  friend,  1  can  never  say  to  him  the  word  he 
wants — 1  can  never  say  '  come.'  If  I  ever  doubted,  1  doubt 
no  longer.  I  do  not  love  him,  worthy  of  all  love  as  he  is  ;  and 
1  shall  love  my  husband,  or  go  to  my  grave  unwedded.  Tell 
him  this  as  gently  as  you  can,  and  forgive  me  all  the  pain  I 
cause  you  both." 


CHAPTER  VI. 


"one  yellow  new  year  night." 


FFER  that  November  afternoon  Miss  Owenson  com- 
plied many  times  with  Mr.  Nolan's  request  that  she 
would  "  sometimes  steal  an  hour  from  her  multipli- 
city of  engagements,  and  come  to  see  Lucy."  Twice, 
at  least,  every  week,  brought  her  to  the  little  cottage  in  the 
shabby,  out-of-the-way  street ;  and  with  every  visit  her  strong 


30O 


*'ONE    YELLOW  NEW   YEAR  NIGHT." 


\\ 


first  liking  for  w  other  and  daughter  grew  stronger.  r)Oiu[trot?, 
hixuriant  and  rare  house-plants,  l):iskets  of  luscious  white 
gra|)es,  new  books,  and  beautiful  engravings,  new  music,  all  the 
refuiecl  and  delicate  things  the  invalid  best  loved,  began  to  find 
iheir  way  to  the  cottnge.  It  was  easy  for  Sydney  to  in)agine 
her  tastes,  for  they  were  her  own.  It  was  understood,  also, 
that  these  things  were  not  to  be  uieiuicjued  at  llu;  donor's  next 
visit  ;  the  thanks  and  gratitude  were  to  be  understood,  not 
expressed.  I'est  of  all,  work  never  flagged  now ;  all  the  time 
the  widow  and  her  daughter  could  spare  from  th'.ir  regular 
customers,  Miss  Owenson  tilled  up. 

During  these  weekly  visits  the  son  of  the  house  was  but 
rarely  met.  A  shyness  altogether  new  in  Miss  Owenson's 
experience  of  herself,  made  her  shrink  from  meeting  him  when 
she  came  to  see  his  sister,  although  always  very  frankly  and 
cordially  glad  to  meet  him  elsewhere.  They  did  meet  tolerably 
often  in  this  way — most  often  of  all  at  his  friend  Mrs.  (Jraham's, 
rarely  at  the  Macgregors',  and  occasionally  at  concerts  or  opera. 
Mrs.  Graham,  like  most  happy  little  wives  and  women,  was  a 
match-maker  by  instinct,  ancl  concciveil  th.e  happy  idea  from 
the  very  first  night,  of  marrying  Miss  Owenson  to  her  favorite 
Lewis. 

"  It  arranges  itself  as  naturally  as  life,  John,"  says  Afrs. 
Graham  to  Mr.  Graham-,  in  connubial  contulence.  "15oth  arc 
young — he  clever,  she  handsome — he  struggling  for  fame  and  a 
start  in  life,  she  with  more  money  than  she  knows  what  to  do 
with.  She  is  the  sweetest  girl  1  have  met  fur  many  a  day— sim- 
ple, unalilected,  intelligent  and  lovely.  She  is  worthy  even  of 
/'////.     All  is  said  in  that." 

"  I  feel,"  observes  Mr.  Graham,  calmly,  "that  if  this  sort  of 
thing  goes  on  much  longer  1  shall  become  a  victim  of  the 
green  eyed  monster — ferociously  jealous  of  l,cwis  Nolan." 

"  Nonsense,  sir !  You  know  you  are  as  fond  of  him  as  I 
am,  and  just  as  anxious  to  see  him  niarry  well." 

"  Ah  !  but  heiresses  don't  throw  themselves  away,  as  a 
general  thing,  on  impecunious  young  attorneys.  Money 
marries  money.  '  tie  that  halh  a  goose  shall  get  a  goose.' 
This  Miss  Owenson  was  of  English  descent — lays  claim  on  the 
father's  side,  x.o  I  understood,  to  birth  and  biood,  and  all  that. 
And  everybody  knows  that  Lewis — my  junior  partner  at 
l>rescnt — began  his  career  as  my  otlice  boy.  That  .sort  of 
thing  (ells  with  women."' 

"it  does  not  with  Miss  Owenson,"  cries  Mrs.  Graham,  with 


i 


**ONE    YELLOW  NEW   YEAP  NliJI/J." 


301 


wilb 


spirit.     **  Don't  class  her  witli  the  ordinary  run  of  young  i)er- 
sons — that  fast  Katie  i\IacL;rcg!)r,  for  ins'iance." 

"  Fast,  my  dear?"  remonstrates  Mr.  (J. 

"Certainly;  she  is  audacious  enough  for  anything.  Did  you 
'lear  her  discuss  that  odious  divortx'  case  lasinight  witii  Mr. 
/un  Cuyler  ? — Van  Cuyler,  of  all  men,  with  his  high  aiul  mighly 
notions  of  womanly  delicacy  and  dignity.  And  the  way  she 
angles  for  Mr.  Vanderdonck — the  way  she  has  been  angling  for 
the  past  six  years  !  It  is  a  tliousand  i)ities  so  pure,  so  true,  so 
thoroughly  sweet  and  womanly  a  girl  as  this  Sydney  Owenson 
should  be  among  them." 

"  She  is  one  of  the  family,  and  they  are  going  to  marry  her 
to  Dick,"  says  Mr.  Graham. 

"Ah!  Dick?  1  ho[)e  your  head  won't  ache  until  they  do," 
darkly  retorts  Mrs.  (Iraham.  "  Siie  will  no  more  marry  Dick 
Macgregor  than — than  I  would  if  I  were  single." 

*'  Thank  you,  my  love,"  says  Mr.  Graham,  and  (^xlls  asleep. 

Mrs.  Graham,  acting  on  this  philanthroi)ic  idea,  took  every 
opportunity  of  throwing  these  two  young  people  together.  She 
conceived  a  great  and  sudden  passion  for  the  orphan  heiress, 
carried  her  about  with  her  jvherever  she  could  induce  her  to 
come,  had  her  at  her  house  a  great  deal,  and  gave  .Mr.  Nolan 
ample  opjiortunity,  if  he  so  desired,  to  win  his  way  to  the  heiress' 
favor.  But  favors  are  vainly  thrust  on  some  i)eople.  Mr. 
Nolan  showed  himself  insensible,  in  a  most  exasi)erating  degree, 
to  all  this  loveliness  and  wealth.  He  and  Miss  Owenson  got  on 
remarkably  well  in  a  general  way,  danced  together,  talked  to- 
gether, even  sang  together,  on  very  private  evenings,  but  of 
love-making,  the  al|)habet  was  not  yet  commenced, 

"  Perhaps  Mr.  Nolan's  modesty  stands  in  his  way,  my  dear," 
is  what  Mr.  Graham  said,  soothingly  to  Mrs.  (iraham,  when  that 
best  of  women  bitterly  complained  of  her  favorite's  defection. 
"  liashfiilness  /,$■  the  bane  of  most  young  barristers'  lives." 

"  liashfulness ! "  cries  Mrs.  (iraham,  with  ineffable  scorn. 
"  'Hie  remark,  sir,  is  too  contemptible  to  be  answered.  The 
worst  of  it  is  thai  1  think " 

But  here  Mrs.  Graham  paused,  too  honorable  to  betray  even 
to  her  husband  the  secret  of  a  sister  woman's  heart. 

'•  You  think  young  Nolan  might  go  in  and  win,  my  dear,  if 
he  liked?"  insinuates  Mr.  (iraham,  which  coarse  remark  hij 
spouse  disdains  to  answer. 

Many  new  friends  were  being  made  in  the  December  weeks, 
many  invitations  pouring  in  for  the  fair  heiress,  maiiy  engage- 


I 


302 


"OA'/i.    YKLI.Oiy  NEli^   YEAR  NIGHT.'' 


u 


iiifiits  for  every  d.iy.  A  net  of  entanglement  seemed  Id  be 
rlo-inj^'  around  S)(lney,  in  spile  of  lur  rebillions  protests  and 
<  s      invitations  conid  not  be  rejected  without  rudeness, 

■T  .  allhongli  for  general  society  Sydney  did  not  nnicii  care,  she 
1  M\(.\  herseh  being  drawn  into  the  maelstrom,  whether  she 
>v.  lid  or  no.  ii  was  most  difficuh,  at  limes,  to  keep  up  hei 
visiir,  to  Jvucy  Nolan,  and  »ii  these  latter  weeks  Lucy  was  ailing 
ami  in  pain. 

Tile  wan,  patient  face  saddened  when  Sydney  went,  and 
lightcMKid  Ii  >  temporary  forgctfulness  of  suffering  when  she 
came.  Sonn-  .f'lie  iM-cembir  sunshine  sei;med  to  '.'nter  :n  her 
luce,  the  little  sad  hoih-'  ^^[rew  glad  with  her  presence.  "Syd- 
ney's days"  were  thesimuiost  days  in  the  week  to  J.ucy;  and 
Sydney,  realizing  it,  resolved  that  no  engagement  sluudd  here- 
after interf.re  with  those  visits.  The  place  that  Cyrilla  Ijen- 
drick  had  once  held  in  her  heart,  vacant  ever  since,  was  rai)itlly 
being  tilleil  by  this  wan,  gentle  Lucy. 

"  'i'he  great  trial  of  "  The  State  n.  llarland  "  was  to  com- 
nience  about  the  close  of  1  December,  and  Lewis  Nolan  became 
so  busy  and  absorbed  that  he  no  longer  was  visible  even  in  the 
drawing-room  of  Mrs.  (Iraluun.  He  came  home  very  late,  to 
sleep,  left  early,  and  was  seen  no  more  until  the  following 
night.  Mrs.  Graham  poured  her  complaints  into  Miss  Owen- 
son's  ear. 

"  He  is  working  himself  to  death.  1  saw  hiin  last  evening. 
I  went  down  to  the  office  for  Mr.  (1.,  and  ]-ewis  lifted  such  a 
worn  face  from  a  pile  of  hideous  law  papers — those  great  eyes 
of  his,  hollow,  and  with  bistre  circles  beneath.  1  miss  him  so 
nuich  at  iuy  receptions,  that  tall  black  head  of  his  towering 
over  the  heads  of  his  fellow  men. 

'"He  seemed  the  goodliest  man 

'J'1);U  ever  aiiiung  hidies  siit  in  liall, 

And  noblest — wlieii  slie  lifted  up  her  eyes, 

And  loved  him  willi  a  love  that  was  her  doom,' " 

said  Mrs.  Cirahani,  gushing  out  in  the  most  unexpected  inanner 
into  blank  verso.     Sydney  laughs— rather  unsymiiathetically. 

"  Dear  me  !  how  very  tragic.  '  With  a  love  that  was  her 
doom  ! '  You  do  not  mean  yourself,  I  hope,  Mrs.  Graham  ? 
For  the  sake  of  morality,  and  my  friendly  regard  for  Mr. 
(Jraham — " 

"  Ah  !  you  are  like  the  rest,"  says  Mrs.  Graham,  i.haking  In  i 
head ;  "  the  guls  of  the  present  day  have  no  hcail.     ^^'hen  1  wa^ 


**OX/i    Yl.l.r.OW  NEW   YliAK  N/Cm\» 


303 


to,  to 


yoiii,-  wc  would  all  luuc  lost  our  heads  for  such  a  man  as  Lewis 
Nolap." 

"What  very  ill-dis(i[)liiicd  heads  must  have  been  in  vogue. 
And  how  odd  11  ."^^vms  to  l)e  talking  y  .  :•;  lent  at  the  fashiona- 
ble hour,  and  on  he  sunny  side  of  'm.  adway,"  answers  the 
ncnvss. 
;,  Mrs.  Graham  Ui'  :ht  have  her  own  ideas,  but  Miss  Owenson 
bahled  even  her.  Certainly  the  bright  ftvce  of  this  statelv  young 
heu-ess  betokened  anything  luit  love-sickness,  and  thai  trank, 
rather  satirical  lau-ii  nuist  come  from  a  heart-whole  maiden.  The 
gentleman  was  immersed  in  a  horrid  murd'-r  case,  the  ladv  in 
running  the  round  of  a  jNew  York  .s»;ason— yes,  it  seemed  a 
a  hoi)eless  affair. 

Sydney's  acciuaintancc  had  come  long  aj^'o  to  the  oars  of  her 
Aimily.  And  Katie  Macgregor  had  looked  uj)  fr(>a  a  fashion- 
book  and  the  latest  style  of  coiffures,  and  given  lier  blonde 
cousin  a  long,  peculiar  glance. 

"So  that  is  where  you  g(j?"  she  .said,  slowly.  "Do  you 
know  it  has  rather  jjuzzled  me  lately  where  so  many  of  your 
afternoons  were  spent  ?  " 

_  "Jndeed!"  said  Miss  Owenson,  going  on  with  her  knitting 
m  unrudled  calm.  "  How  very  unnecessary  U>v  you  to  \nui\c 
yourself.  Had  you  inquired  1  would  have  been  most  haonv  to 
have  told  you."  ' '  ^ 

There  was  silence.  Miss  Macgregor  looki  J  back  at  the 
heads  of  hair  with  compressed  lips. 

"  You  went  fnst  with  Uncle  Grif,  to  have  your  torn  flounce 
rei)aired  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  knew  they  were  seamstresses  of  some  sort— i!ressmakers 
or  shirtmake-s,  1  fancied.  Wl)at  kind  of  jjeople  are  tl  sey  ?  Vul- 
gar, or  like   Lewis?" 

"  Vulgar  is  the  last  word  I  should   think  of  applyii,^  to  Mrs. 
or  Miss  Nolan.     Jf  1  ever  saw  ladies,  they  are  ladies.'^ 
"Ah!  persons  of  education  ?  " 
J      "  That  is  understood." 

^      "  JUit  it  nuist  be  a  very  unpleasant  neighborhood  ft    you   to 
visit— some  low  street,  is  it  not,  near  the  North  River  ?    ' 

"It  is  a  street  of  poor  people,  if  that  is  what  you  mean. 
Does  poverty  mevitably  include  lowness  ?  1  do  not  tind  it  at  all 
uirileasant." 

"  And  then,  of  course,  Lewis  is  always  there  to  see  yoi  safelt 
home,"'  carelessly  suggests  Miss  Macgregor. 


304  "OxVE    YELLOW  NEW   YEAR  NIGHT." 

Miss  Owctison  lifts  her  eyes  from  her  work— a  gray  and 
crimson  breakfast  shawl  for  Aunt  Helen— and  looks  across  at 
her  cousin. 

"  Mr.  Lewis  came  home  with  me  on  the  evening  of  my  hist 
visit,  as  Uncle  (^.rif  liad  forsaken  me.  Since  that  day  1  have 
not  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  him  once  at  his  mother's  house." 

Was  there  a  ring  of  defiance  in  Sydney's  tone  ?  instantly 
Katie  became  cheerfully  apologetic. 

"  Uncle  C.rif  always  said  they  were  the  nicest  possible  people, 
the  Nolan  family.  I  never  met  any  of  them  but  Lewis.  He 
wa",  ■x  protege  of  uncle's,  as  1  have  told  you,  and  it  was  uncle 
who  first  got  him  into  Mr.  Clraham's  office  to  open  and  close, 
sweep,  go  errands— not  a  very  dignified  beginning— and  finally 
sent  him  to  the  same  school  with  Dick.  Dick  used  to  brnig 
him  here  at  times,  and  we  all  rom[)ed  in  a  friendly  way  together  ; 
but  as  we  grew  up,  of  course,  our  paths  swerved.  I  have 
no  doubt,  however,  that  Lewis  Nolan's  will  one  day  be  a  well 
known  name  throughout  the  land." 

"One,  two,  three,  four,  five— seven— twelve  loops  of  gray," 
is  Miss  Owenson's  answer  to  this,  as  she  bends  over  the  break- 
fast shawl. 

"'i'he  trial  begins   to-morrow,"    pursues   Katie.     "How  I. 

should  like  to  go." 

"  Should  you  ?"  growls  Dick,  rising  suddenly  from  his  seat  m 
a  distant  window  and  thro^ving  <\o\s\\  his  i)aper.  "  I  dare  say  : 
women  are  always  fond  of  going  where  they're  not  wanted  ; 
divorce  trials,  murder  trials,  everything  new  and  nasty.  They  go 
to  hangings,  sometimes,  and  bring  their  babies.  1  don't  sup- 
pose it  would  do  j>w/any  harm  ;  but,  for  all  that,  you  won't  go." 

"  Don't  attempt  sarcasm,  Dick,  at  least  until  you  grow  a 
little  older.  I  want  very  mucli  to  see  Mrs.  Harland,  and  hear 
Mr.  Nolan's  si)eech.  Mrs.  (iraham  is  going,  Mrs.  (jreerson,  and 
lots  more.  Why  cannot  you  get  Syd  and  me  admission,  like  a 
man  and  a  brother  ?" 

"  Would  you  go  ?  "  asks  Dick,  looking  at  Miss  Owenson. 

"  No,"  says  Sydney,  (juietly. 

"  Ah  !  "  Captain  Macgregor's  manly  brow  clears  ;  "  I  thought 
not.  You  may  go  if  you  choose,  Katie  ;  you're  big  enough 
and  old  enough  to  look  out  for  yourself;  but  I  wouldn't  if  I 
were  you.  Fellows  talk  about  that  sort  of  thing,  and  it  spoils 
your  chances." 

"  Mr  Vanderdonck  wouldn't  care,"  responds  Katherine,  with 
unrullled  good  temper. 


^(f 


*'ONE    YELLOW  NEW   YEAR  NIGHT:' 


305 


gray  and 
across  at 

"my  fiist 
.y  1  have 
s  house." 
Instaully 

e  peoi)le, 
wis.  He 
as  uncle 
1(1  close, 
nd  finally 
to  bring 
together ; 
I  have 
be  a  well 

of  gray," 
he  break- 

"How  I 

lis  seat  in 
dare  say  : 

wanted  ; 

They  go 
lon't  sup- 
,von't  go." 
)u  grow  a 

and  hear 
_MSon,  and 
on,  like  a 

nson. 

I  thought 
g  enough 
uldn't  if  I 
1   it  spoils 

irine,  with 


"  No,  but  Van  Cuyler  might.  You've  been  making  eyes  at 
Van  Cuyler  lately,  haven't  you  ?  Not  that  it's  of  any  use,  mind 
you,"  says  Dick,  darkly.  "  He  has  registered  a  vow,  has  Van 
Cuyler,  like  those  fellows  with  the  crosses  on  their  legs — cross- 
legged,  eh  ? — Crusaders,  never  to  marry.  He'll  take  all  the 
love  making  you  can  do — he's  used  to  it,  bless  you — and  never 
think  once  you're  out  of  his  sight." 

"  What  a  '  blessing  in  disguise'  is  a  brother,"  observes  Katie 
as  the  door  closes  after  Captain  Dick's  stalwart  form.  "  He  is 
right  to  a  certain  extent,  after  all  ;  I  should  like  to  go." 

She  did  not,  however  ;  but  the  papers  and  Dick  brought 
daily  reports  of  the  trial.  The  opening  speech  for  the  prosecu- 
tion was  crushing — the  learned  counsel  inveighed  against  the 
manor  woman  "  who  anticipates  the  great  prerogative  of  the 
Almighty,  and  sends  a  soul  from  time  to  eternity."  (ireat  inter- 
est was  felt  on  all  sides,  for  Mrs.  Harland  had  youth  and  good 
looks,  and  many  friends.  The  trial  lasted  a  week.  Mr.  Nolar. 
came  to  the  fore  nobly,  and  displayed  a  forensic  skill  and  acu- 
men that  would  have  done  honor  to  twenty  years'  experience  at 
the  bar.  That  was  wliat  the  papers  said,  and  Dick  and  Mrs. 
Craham  endorsed.  He  arose  and  spoke  for  his  client  in  away, 
the  latter  lady  declared,  that  brought  tears  to  every  eye.  He 
painted  a  long  catalogue  of  wrongs  she  had  endured,  the  name- 
less insults  she  had  undergone,  the  outrages  of  every  kind  that  a 
brutal  husband  can  intiict.  His  speech.  Airs.  Graham  dcclareil, 
was  one  outburst  of  impassionated  eloquence — his  whole  heart 
and  soul  seemed  to  be  in  it.  Sydney  listened  with  profound 
sympathy.  Mr.  Nolan  himself  could  hardly  hope  more  ar- 
dently than  did  she  now,  that  the  unhappy  prisoner  might  go 
forth  free.  But  the  hope  was  in  vain,  the  trial  ended,  the  sen- 
tence was  a  light  one,  most  peojile  thought — four  year.s. 

"She  heard  it  with  stony  calm,"  narrated  Mrs.  Craham,  with  a 
half  sob  ;  "  but  she  grasped  Lewis  Nolan's  hand  as  he  held  it  out 
to  her,  and  kissed  it.  '  i  will  never  see  you  again,'  she  said  ; 
'I  will  never  live  to  come  out.  My  sentence  is  just ;  but  all  my 
life  J  will  thank  and  pray  for  you.'  I  cried,  I  assure  you,  as  if 
my  heart  would  break,"  said  Mrs.  Craham,  who  cried  as  if  that 
organ  would  break  on  the  smallest  provocation.  "  Death  was 
impiintedon  her  face,  poor  thing;  and  for  Lewis  himself,  he 
hardly  looked  better." 

liiat  evenmg  a  little  note  from  Lucy  reached  Sydney. 

"  Dear,"  it  said,  "  come  tomorrow.     1  am  sick  in  body  and 


3o6 


''ONE    YELLOW  NEW  YEAR  NIGHTr 


'■hm 


sick  at  heart.     Ix-t  me  see  your  bright  face,  and  tell  you  my' 
troubles.  LucY." 


It  was  so  rare  a 


thing  for  patient  Lucy  to  complain  that  Syd- 
ney was  troubled.  She  went  to  the  opera  in  the  evening,  and 
the  celebrated  Mr.  Van  Cuyler,  the  pet  this  winter  of  the  best 
nielroi)()litan  society,  came  into  their  box,  and  in  aSultan-like  way 
made  himself  agreeable  to  her ;  but  she  was  distrait,  answered 
at  randou),  heard  the  singing  as  in  a  dream,  and  had  a  restless 
and  broken  night,  haunted  now  by  the  pale  face  of  the  sister, 
now  by  the  dark  face  of  the  brother.  It  was  a  relief  when, 
luncheon  over,  she  could  start  for  the  cottage. 

She  invariably  walked  now ;  she  liked  walking  for  walkmg's 
sake,  and  reached  the  house  with  cheeks  like  pale  pink  roses. 
'I'he  house-door  was  only  closed,  not  locked.  She  never  waited 
to  knock  now.  She  opened  it,  and  entered,  opened  the  parlor 
door,  and  looked  in.  The  blinds  were  closed,  green  dusk  filled 
the  room  j  but  through  the  twilight  she  could  discern  a  figure 
lying  on  the  sofa.     She  went  forward  softly,  and  knelt  down. 

"  Mrs.  Nolan,"  she  said,  slightly  touching  the  cheek  with  her 
hand,  "are  you  asleep?     It  is  I— Sydney." 

The  figure  started  upright,   and  she  saw  that  it  was  Lewis, 
who  had  been  lying  motionless,  his  face  upon  his  arm.     Sydney 
sprang  to  her  feet. 
"Mr.  Nolan  1" 

It  was  nearly  a  fortnight  since  they  had  met,  and  the  change 
in  him  positively  shocked  her.  Worn  and  haggard,  hollow-eyed 
and  thin,  something  more  than  Mrs.  Harland's  trial  was  at 
work  there. 

'*  You— you  are  not  ill  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  gasp. 
He  passed  his  hand  with  an  impatient  sigh,  a  gesture  of  spirit- 
less weariness  across  his  forehead. 

"  111  ?  Oh,  no — I  never  was  ill  in  my  life— only  a  httle  used 
up  after  my  labors." 

«'  You  are  looking  badly.  I  am  sorry  your  cause  has  lost, 
Mr.  Nolan,"  she  said,  gently. 

'  "Thank  you,"  he  returned,  in  the  same  half  apathetic  way. 
"  It  was  justice,  I  suppose,  and  justice  must  be  done  though  the 
heavens  fall.  *  Burning  for  burning— an  eye  for  an  eye,  a  life 
for  a  life  ; '  it  holds  as  good  to-day  as  in  the  old  Lcvitscal  times. 
'J'liey  have  killed  her  as  surely  as  if  they  had  hanged  her— it  li 
only  a  queslion  of  time." 
"  1  am  very  sorry." 


I 


\\- 


I 


**ONE    YELLOW  NEW   YEAR  NIGHTS* 


307 


you  my 

^UCY." 

that  Syd- 


ii"g. 


and 


the  best 
i-likeway 
answered 
1  restless 
\e  sister, 
ef  when, 

walking's 
nk  roses, 
er  waited 
he  parlor 
iisk  filled 
1  a  figure 
down, 
with  her 

as  Lewis, 
Sydney 


It  change 
llow-eyed 
il  was  at 


;  of  spirit- 
little  used 
has  lost, 

hetic  way. 
hough  the 
eye,  a  life 
ical  tijnes. 
her — it  ia 


"You  are  kind  ;  but  wliy  should  you  be  pained  by  such  hor- 
rors  at  all?  Do  not  think  of  it.  Lucy  expects  you,  I  fancy. 
This  miserable  business  lias  u[)set  her  too,  on  my  account,  as  if 
she  had  not  enouyh  to  endure  already." 

Sydney  ascended  to  the  upper  room.  Lucy  was  not  in  bed ; 
she  was  in  her  large  invalid  chair,  with  the  little  book  she  so 
dearly  loved  in  her  hand,  the  "  Imitation." 

"Reading  i)oetry,"  Sydney  said,  kissing  her.  "Nobody  can 
equal  A'Kenipis.  What  is  the  trouble  now,  dear  ? — that  weary 
pain  again  ?  " 

"  No,  no — if  it  were  only  that !  Physical  pain  is  not  the 
hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  bear." 

"  You  have  been  crying,"  Sydney  said,  "  you  who  never  cry 
Lucy,  what  is  this  ?  " 

"  Lewis  is  down-stairs  ;  have  you  seen  him  ?" 

"  Yes.     Is  it  the  loss  of  the  trial  ?     Dear  Lucy " 

"  No,  no,  no  ;  that  I  expected.     It  is •" 

"  W/iat?"  Sydney  almost  sharply  ciied. 

"  That  Lewis  is  going  away." 

A  stifled  sob  broke  from  her,  as  she  laid  her  head  on  her 
friend's  shoulder.     There  was  silence — then  : 

"  This  is  very  sudden,  is  it  not  ? "  Miss  Owenson  asked, 
quietly,  almost,  it  might  have  been  thought,  coldly.  "  Has  the 
verdict  affected  him  then  so  greatly?" 

*'  It  is  not  tlie  verdict,  aUhough  that  has  something  to  do 
with  it.      He  has  been  thinking  of  it  for  over  a  year." 

"  But  he  is  Mr.  Graham's  partner,  and  his  prospects  seem 
excellent.     Is  this  not  a  rather  foolish  notion  ?  " 

"  He  thinks  not,  Mr.  Graham  himself  thinks  not.  He 
would  have  gone  a  year  ago,  but  that  I  was  so  ill." 

"  You  are  not  particularly  well  now." 

"  No ;  but  if  he  feels  he  nuist  go,  dearly  as  I  love  him,  inex- 
pressibly as  I  shall  miss  him,  I  will  not  bid  him  stay." 

"  Where  does  he  propose  to  go  ?  " 

"  To  California — to  Sacramento.  He  has  a  friend  in  that 
city,  with  more  business  by  far  than  he  can  attend  to,  and  he 
has  written  again  and  again  for  Lewis  to  join  him.  It  is  just 
the  opening  Lewis  wants,  with  his  talents  and  energy,  for  he  is 
talented,  you  know,  Sydney." 

*' i  know,  dear,"  a  little  tremor  in  the  clear  voice.  "And 
he  is  going — when  ?" 

"Early  in  March.  He  will  write  and  tell  his  friend  so  this 
week.     Oh,  Sydney  !  Sydney  1 " 


3o8  '^ONE    YELLOW  NEW   YEAR  NIGUTy 

•  She  flunT  her  arms  around  her  friend's  neck,  and  held  hef 
close,  sobbing  as  that  friend  had  never  heard  her  sob  before. 
Sydney  held  her  without  a  word;  but  i)erhai)s  Lucy  Nolan 
needed  no  words  to  know  that  her  sorrow  was  keenly  telt. 

Miss  Owenson  remained  later  than  usual  this_  afternoon,  her 
presence  seemed  such  a  comfort  to  Lucy  in  this  new  trouble. 
They  ceased  to  talk  of  the  coming  bereavement,  and  Sydney 
animatedlv  gave  laicy  an  account  of  New  Years  Day-the 
grand  levee  \hey  had  held,  in  robes  of  state,  with  darkened 
parlors  and  llaring  gas,  of  the  innumerable  calls,  the  absurdi- 
ties of  the  men  as  the  day  grew  older  and  the  champagne  grew 

heady  " 

Lucy  absolutely  laughed  aloud,  and  Lewis,  busy  among  sun- 
dry documents,  in  spite  of  a  bad  headache,  listened  with  a 
sense  of  absolute  physical  pain  as  Miss  Owenson  s  soft  musical 
peal  .cached  him.  He  was  too  much  occupied  to  put  in  an 
m.pearance  until  tea,  served  in  Lucy's  room;  and  as  they  met 
around  the  little  table,  they  four,  Sydney  was  more  than  ever 
struck  by  the  worn  pallor  of  the  young  man's  dark  tace. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  he  said  indifferently;  "i  will  be  all  right 
again  directly.  A  few  weeks  hard  cramming  in  my  student  days 
used  to  knock  me  up  in  the  same  way.  We  colored  i)e(;i.  e 
grow  haggard  upon  very  little  provocation,  but  we  are  tough- 
est at  bottom  after  all."  ■       ^,-       r\ 

On  this  evening  Mr.  Nolan  was  of  necessity  Miss  Owen- 
son's  escort  to  Madison  Avenue,  for  the  second  time.  It  was  a 
perfect  night ;  a  yellow,  melting  full  moon  Hooded  the  sky  with 
li.'ht  and  the  earth  with  amber  haze  ;  it  was  mild  as  Septem- 
ber, the  streets  were  brilliant  with  gas-lit  shops  and  busy  peo- 

^'  ""'<  It  is  a  night  like  a  topaz,"  said  Miss  Owenson—"  a  night 
to  be  remembered."  .  a/    i    • 

"  It  is  a  ni'^ht  I  will  remember  when  my  life  m  New  York  is  a 
dream  of  the  past,  i  am  going  away,  Miss  Owenson-has 
Lucy  told  you?"  ,  ... 

"Yes,  she  has  told  me,"  the  young  lady  answers,  ma  curiously 

constrained  voice.  .1        „ 

"It  is  rather  an  effort  to  pull  up  stakes  and  go;  rathei    a 

wrench  to  tear  myself  away  from  poor  Lucy  and   my  mother  ; 

but  i  feel  that  my  chances  are  better  there,  and  1  have  many 

reasons  to  urge  me  to  go." 

"  Your  friends  will   miss  you  very  much— we  will   all  miss 

you,"  Miss  Owensjn  says. 


*'FAIR  AS  A  star:' 


309 


held  her 
D  before. 
:y  Nohin 
felt. 

10011,  lier 
'  trouble, 
il  Sydney 
Diiy— the 
darkened 
;  absurdi- 
igne  grew 

nong  sun- 
d  with  a 
ft  musical 
jHit  in  an 
they  met 
than  ever 
cc. 

:  all  right 
ident  days 
.'d  people 
ire  tough - 

iss  Owen- 
.  1 1  was  a 
e  sky  with 
,s  Septem- 
busy  pco- 


-"a 


night 


^  York  is  a 
;nson — has 

a  curiously 

;  rather  a 
y  mother  ; 
have  many 

ill   all  miss 


"All  ?  "  His  dark  eyes  flash  for  a  moment,  and  he  looks  at 
her.  "Do  you  mean  that,  I  wonder,  or  is  it  only  the  proi)er 
thing  to  say  ?  '* 

"  I  mean  what  I  say,  as  a  rule,  Mr.  Nolan.  I  certainly  mean 
that.  We  will  miss  you — some  of  us — notably  Mrs.  Graham 
— will  break  our  hearts." 

A  little  tremor,  with  the  soft  laugh. 

'*  Mrs.  Graham  has  been  my  very  good  friend  always  ;  I  owe 
her  and  her  husband  more  than  I  can  say,"  Nolan  answeis  in  a 
tone  of  feeling. 

'J'here  is  silence,  ar.d  they  walk  on,  and  Sydney  seems  to  feel 
—to  feel  with  a  sharp,  swift  pang  altogether  new — that  it  is 
their  last  walk. 

"When  do  you  go?"  she  inquiios. 

"The  first  of  March,  probably  five  weeks  from  now,  if  I  can 
be  ready ;  and  I  think  1  can." 

"  Then  this  is  good-night  and  not  good-by  ?  "  she  says. 

"  Good-night  certainly,  and  not  good-by,"  he  answers,  smil- 
ing. 

"  Shall  you  be  at  Mrs.  Graham's  to-morrow  evening?" 

There  is  an  unconscious  wistfulness  in  her  tone,  but  he  does 
not  detect  it. 

"  1  think  not.  These  evenings  out  unfit  me  for  work,  and  I 
shall  not  have  an  hour  to  spare  before  I  go." 

"  Good-night,"  she  says,  abruptly. 

She  runs  up  the  steps,  rings,  is  admitted,  and  goes  at  once 
to  her  own  room.  Her  heart  is  full  of  bitterness,  full  of  impa- 
tient pain,  full  of  wounded  pride  and  feeling,  full  of  anger  at 
herself.  She  sits  down  and  lays  her  head  miserably  on  the 
table,  and  knows  fully  for  the  first  time  thcu  what  Sir  Harry 
Leonard  has  sought  in  vain  Lewis  Nolan  has  won,  unsought. 


CHAPTER  VH. 

"  FAIR   AS   A    STAR." 

OVE  troubles  are  like  other  troubles,  they  seldom  come 

singly.     Lewis  Nolan  might  exasperate  his  best  friends 

by  his  stoical  indifference   to  beauty  and  fortune,  but 

other  gentlemen   jiossessed  more   ap[)recialive    taste. 

Eoremosl  among  them  was  the  son  of  the  house,  Captain  Dick 


i  H 

I  i 


'I 


i  i 

i 

310 


''FA//i  AS  A   STAUr 


Macirretror.  Karly  in  February  Captain  Macgrcgor  was  to  go 
where  glory  awaited  him  ;  his  furlough  would  exi)n-e,  and  he 
nuist  return  to  his  duty  and  the  banks  of  the  Potomac.  his 
was  why,  perhaps,  so  gloomy  a  change  came  o'er  his  warlike 
brow,  why  he  fell  into  moody  reveries,  and  sighed  like  a  ur- 
iiace,  why  he  lost  his  appetite,  and  weighed  hve  pounds  less 
than  his  usual  one  hundred  and  sixty,  why  he  sat  like  a  death  s 
head  at  the  family  baiupiet,  why  melancholy  iiad  marked  him  foi; 
her  own.  On  the  other  hand,  as  Cai)tain  Dick  liked  his  camp 
hfe,  with  all  its  hardshii)s  and  skirmishes,  much  better  than  the 
switch-cane  and  kid  glove  swelldom  of  F.roadway,  it  is  just  as 
likely  it  was  not.  But  spirits  and  small  talk,  api)etite  and  "  airy 
lau.'^hter,"  the  young  man  had  lost,  beyond  doubt ;  and  instead 
of  awaking  sympathy,  his  altered  visage  was  made  game  of  in 
the  social  circle. 


>  n 


«'  '  And  'mid  his  mirth  'twas  often  strange, 

quotes  Miss  Katie  Macgregor,  doubling  up  her  hand  and  gaz- 
ing at  her  brother  as  if  he  were  a  work  of  art, 

"  '  How  suddenly  his  cheer  would  change, 
His  looks  o'ercast  and  lower.' 

"  Where  is  your  appetite  gone  to,  dearest  Richard  ?  It  has 
struck  me  of  late  that  '  green  and  yellow  melancholy,'  like  '  die 
worm  i'  the  bud,'  is  preying  on  your  damask  cheek.  How 
does  it  strike  you,  Syd  ?  "  . 

"  It  strikes  me,"  says  Miss  Owenson,  "  t'.iat  Uick  is  growing 
unpleasantly  like  the  uiisar.throi)ic  skipper  in  the  poem— 

"  '  His  arms  across  his  breast,  ,  ,  „ 

His  stern  brow  firmly  knitted,  and  his  iron  lip  compressed. 

«'  That  sort  of  gentleman  has  heretofore  been  my  ideal,  but 
I  begin  to  find  ideals  in  real  life  are  mistakes.  If  pouring  your 
sorrows  into  our  sympathetic  ears,  Dick,  will  relieve  you,  you 

are  at  lil)erty  to  pour."  ,    ^r-      r^ 

Captain  Macgregor  looks  gloomily  toward  Miss  Uwenson. 
The'hour  of  his  departure  is  here ;  he  may  never  return,  and 

she  can  chaff.  _ 

-  Knitted  ?"  pursues  Katie,  still  regarding  Dick  with  the  ♦•ye 
of  a  connoisseur.  "  Well,  yes,  he  does  remind  one  a  litUe  of 
the  industrious  old  lady  who,  when  she  had  nothing  else  to 
knit,  knit  her  brows." 


"FAIR  AS  A   STAR." 


;m 


was  to  go 
e,  ami  lie 
lac.  This 
lis  warlike 
like  a  fur- 
oiinds  less 
J  a  death's 
:ed  him  foi; 
d  liis  cani|) 
r  than  the 
is  just  as 
and  "  airy 
nd  instead 
fame  of  in 


d  and  gaz- 


d  ?  If  has 
y,'  like  '  the 
:ek.      How 

is  growing 
3  cm — 

pressed.' " 

ly  ideal,  but 
curing  your 
!C  you,  you 

5  Owen  son. 
return,  and 

ivith  the  eye 
e  a  little  of 
ling  else  to 


"For  Heaven's  sake,  Katie  !"  exclaims  Dick,  with  a  look  of 
disgust,  "  spare  us  jokes  of  such  ghastly  anticiiiity  as  that.  Per. 
pctual  silence  is  better  than  the  threadbare  facetiousness  of  an 
ancient  almanac," 

*'  lunmy  Vinton  can't  have  refused  him,"  goes  on  Katie,  med- 
itatively ;  "her  attentions  of  late  to  the  heir  of  this  house  have 
been  i)aiiifully //-^w/v/r''.  Can  it  be  that  she  only  lured  him  on 
to  make  the  final  blow  more  bitter  ?" 

"  .Shows  very  bad  taste  on  Miss  Vinton's  j^art  if  she  has," 
laiiglied  Sydney,  rising  from  breakfast,  at  which  matutinal  re- 
past this  family  conclave  has  taken  place. 

Although  Miss  Owenson  could  laugh  at  Captain  Dick  with- 
out the  faintest,  remotest  idea  that  she  was  in  any  way  the  cause 
of  his  gentle  melancholy,  she  was  by  no  means  in  very  high 
spirits  just  at  present. 

Her  semi-weekly  visits  to  the  Nolan  cottage  continued  as 
usual  ;  she  was  far  too  proud  to  stay  away  now,  although  she 
shrank  from  the  thought  of  meeting  there  the  son  and  brotlier. 
Slie  never  did  meet  him.  Mr.  Nolan  knew  her  visiting  days, 
and  on  these  days  Imgered  an  extra  hour  in  the  office.  ICvi- 
dently  he  wished  to  avoid  her.  Did  he  sus])ect  the  tru.li  ? 
Alone,  as  she  was,  when  the  thought  hashed  upon  her,  the 
scarlet  blood  leajied  over  her  clieek  and  brow,  dyeing  botii  a 
burning,  shameful,  terrified  crimson.  It  coukl  liardly  be,  and 
yet — that  he  avoided  meeting  her  at  his  mother's  was  pal|)able. 
The  red  tide  slowly  ebbed,  leaving  her  as  while  as  the  white 
cashmere  morning  robe  she  wore. 

"  My  going  there  must  cease,"  she  thought,  "  at  least  become 
infre(i'ifnt,  nnlil  he  goes.  After  that  I  may  surely  visit  Lucy 
as  much  as  1  please." 

Her  lip  (luiverecl  slightly,  with  a  sense  of  wounded  pride,  jier- 
haps,  but  with  a  deeper  feeling  beside.  And  from  that  day, 
once  a  week  was  as  often  as  Sydney  could  find  time  to  visit  her 
friend. 

Lucy  was  poorly,  these  January  days  ;  and  the  sea-gray  eyes, 
wonderfiilly  like  her  brother's,  would  gaze  in  silent  reproach  at 
Miss  Owenson  when  she  came. 

"  Forgive  me,  dear,"  Sydney  said,  kissing  her.  "  I  know  I 
should  have  been  here  before,  but  indeed  1  am  very  busy.  '  From 
spori  to  sport  they  liurry  me,'  etc.  1  am  on  a  sort  of  treadmill, 
my  L'.icy,  where  once  on,  to  stoi>  is  impossible." 

"You  go  out  too  much,  I  am  afraid,"  Lucy  returned,  clasi^ng 
in  both  her  fragile  ones  the  warm  jewelled  hands  of  her  friend. 


312 


"FAIR  AS  A   star:' 


m 


A     ■ 

,\\ 

'A 

\ 

(( 


ot  conducive  to  rosy  bloom.     Hut  1  am  wondi-rfully 
have  a  headache — that  pet  feminine  disorder. 


Nf 


Dissipation  does  not  agree  with  you.     You  never  had  much 
color,  but  vou  are  growing  white  as  a  lily,  and  as  thin." 

"Are  lilies  thin  ?"  laughed  Syilney.     "  It  is  news  to  me  that 
lilies  lose  llesh.     Too  much  dancing  and  dressing,  gaslight   and 
glitter,  are  n 
strong,  1  never  even 

My  patient  Lucy,  1  wish  I  could  give  you  a  little  of  my  super- 
abundant vitality." 

"  You  do  when  you  come  ;  if  1  saw  you  everyday  I  believe  I 
should  grow  well.  Yet  it  is  selfish  to  wish  to  bring  you  to  this 
room,  although  your  very  presence  is  a  tonic." 

Sydney  laid  her  fair  rounded  cheek  tenderly,  pitifully  against 
the  hollow,  wasted  one  of  the  friend  she  loved. 

"  Wait  a  little,  dear,"  she  said,  softly.  "  When  Lent  begins, 
dissipation  must  cease  ;  and  then  even  every  day  may  not  be  too 
often  for  me  to  find  my  way  here." 

"  And  do  penance,"  supplemenf^  Lucy,  with  a  little  laugh  that 
ends  in  a  little  sigh.  "  Lewis  will  De  gone  then— how  lonely  we 
shall  be." 

Miss  Owenson  is  silent,  but  her  fair  head  still  rests  m  symi^athy 
on  Lucy's  pillow,  and,  perhaps,  in  the  way  women  know  these 
things,  Lewis  Nolan's  sister  knows  that  her  trouble  was  felt. 

Sydney  was  very  busy — was  on  a  sort  of  social  treadmill  as 
she  said,  from  which  there  seemed  no  escape,  ^  en  if  escape  she 
wished.  ]5ut  she  did  not  wish  very  strongly— it  was  pleasant 
enough  to  meet  kindly  new^  faces,  and  be  petted,  and  admired, 
and  made  much  of,  wherever  she  went.  She  was  tolerably  used 
to  admiration,  and  so  that  it  was  not  offensively  paraded  did  noi 
dislike  it.  Mrs.  (Iraham  regarded  her  with  eyes  of  silent  reproach. 
Was  she  a  frivolous  "  butterfly  of  fashion,"  like  the  rest  ?  Sydney 
understood  the  look,  and  sniiled  rather  bitterly  to  herself. 

"  She  thinks  it  is  my  fault  he  is  going,"  Miss  Owenson  thought. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  Lewis  Nolan  is  going  away?"  Mrs. 
(iraham  asks,  looking  the  young  lady  full  in  the  face. 

♦'  Mr.  Nolan  ?  Oh,  yes,  his  sister  told  nie— he  mentioned  it 
afterward  to  me  himself.  A  very  good  thing,  is  it  not,  for  him  ?  " 
inquires  Miss  Owenson,  calmly.  "  Although  you  will  miss  him," 
she  laughingly  adds,  as  an  afterthought. 

"  Altliougii  you  will  miss  him,"  and  she  smiles  as  she  says  it, 
Mr.  Nolan  may  go,  and  deeply  and  keenly  Miss  Owenson  may 
feel  it ;  but  tlie  roic  of  the  "  maiden  all  forlorn  '  is  one  she  is  not 
j)rei)ared  to  play  for  any  man  alive. 

January  goes  out  and  February  comes  in,  and  in  three  days 


*'FAIR  AS  A   STAR." 


3U 


lad  much 

me  that 
itiht  and 
•lulerfully 
disorder, 
iiy  super- 
believe  I 
)u  to  this 

y  against 

It  begins, 
lot  be  too 

augh  that 
lonely  we 

sympathy 
low  these 
IS  felt, 
admill  as 
icape  she 
,  pleasant 
admired, 
ably  used 
d  did  noi 
reproach. 
Sydney 
ielf. 

thought. 
?"     Mrs. 

:ntioned  it 
"or  him  ?  " 
nisshim," 

he  says  it, 
nson  may 
she  is  not 

three  days 


Captain  Afacgregor  departs  ui^on  the  war-path.  Deeper  and 
deeper  grows  the  gloom  that  mantles  his  mnnly  brow.  Fear, 
wild  hopj,  d.irk  despair  alternately  play  upon  his  vitals.  So 
many  men  are  after  her — Van  Cuyler,  the  ber,t  match  in  the  city 
among  the  rest — what  chance  has  h<',  without  beauty  or  brains, 
as  his  engagingly  frank  sister  has  told  him, with  nothing  to  ofier  but 
his  cai)tain's  pay  and  the  deepest  devotion  of  an  admiring  heart, 
etc.  ?  'I'heie  are  times  when  he  resolves  to  rush  away,  and 
bury  his  secret  in  the  deepest  recesses  of  his  soul,  others 
when  hoi)e  reigns  para'nount  and  he  resolves  to  i)our  out  his 
passion  before  her.  Complicating  feelings  tear  him,  and  he 
becomes  a  spectacle  of  i)ity  to  men  and  gods. 

"  If  any  tiling  were  preying  on  my  mind,"  remarks  his  sister,  one 
day,  casting  ii|)  her  eyes  to  the  ceiling  and  apparently  addressing 
the  observation  to  the  chanrlelier,  "  I  would  si)eak  out  or  perish  ! 
No  secret  sorrow  sliould  consume  my  heart — not  if  I  knew  my- 
self, and  the  object  of  that  secret  sorrow  my  own  third  cousin. 

"  She  is  a  woman — tliorefoie  may  be  wooed  ; 
She  is  a  woiiuiii— therefore  may  be  won." 

Miss  Macgregor  sailed  out  of  the  room  as  she  concluded. 
Dick  never  looked  up  from  the  book  he  was  //('/  reading.  In 
the  back  drawing-room  Sydney  sat  playing  softly  to  herself, 
drea-ny  JMozartian.  melodies.  After  a  moment's  deliberation 
he  threw  down  his  novel  and  went  in  to  join  her.  The  gas  was 
turned  low,  so  that  his  sudden  paleness  was  the  less  observable, 
and  the  soft  musical  murmur  drowned  the  dull  heavy  thumping 
of  his  heart. 

She  looked  up  with  a  smile  of  welcome.  Of  all  the  house- 
hold she  liked  Dick  best,  and  was  really  sorry  to  see  him  go. 
15ut  of  the  wild  work  she  had  made  inside  the  blue  and  brass 
.she  never  for  a  moment  dreamed.  A  cotjnette  in  the  very  least, 
in  the  nios*^  innocent  way,  Sydne)-  Owenson  was  not ;  she  was 
ignorant  of  the  very  rudiments  of  the  profession.  Dick  and 
she  were  good  friends  and  distant  cousins,  nothing  more. 

The  melanchr)ly  "  Moonlight  Sonata"  changed,  and,  with  a 
mischievous  upward  look,  "■  Partaiit pour  la  Syne''  began  the 
young  lady,  Dick  gave  her  no  ai  ering  smile  ;  he  leaned 
moodily  against  the  piano  with  foldeu  arms,  and  looked  down 
at  the  slender  white  hand  on  which  diamonds  and  o{,>als  siiim- 
mered  in  the  soft  li'dit. 

"  Dick,  how  dismal  you  look,"  she  says,  half  laughing.      "  If 
I  did  not  know  whit  a  hie  eater  you  are,  I  should  think  war  and 


3M 


**FAIR  AS  A  star:' 


ils  glories  were  depressing  your  spirits.  I  must  work  a  scarf  fof 
our  young  knight  before  he  returns  to  the  battlefield  ;  and  Knv 
ma  Vinton-  little  Kininy,  who  is  dying  for  you,  Dick— shall  tie 
it  round  your  arm,  a  la  MilUiis'  '  I'luguenot  Lovers  ! '"  _ 

"Is  it  necessary  to  give  it  to  Kinmy  Vinton  when  it  13 
worked?"  says  Dick,  in  an  agitated  voice.  "1  should  value  it 
more  if  some  one  else  tied  it  on." 

"  Should  you  ?  "  Sydney  says,  opening  her  eyes.  "  Poor  little 
Enuny  !     Who,  Dick  ?  " 

"You  !"  says  Dick  Macgregor. 
"I?" 

i<.  You— you,  Sydney— you  1 "  he  replies,  in  a  voice  that  trem- 
bles  with  the  intensity  of  the  passion  he  represses.  "  Oh,  don't, 
don't  say  you  never  knew  t'lis  ! " 

u  I— never— did,"  slowly  and  blonkly  Sydney  answers. 

"  l')Ut  now  that  you  do  know,  you  will  not— Sydney,  you  will 

not  send  me  away  !      I  am  not  wortiiy  of  you,  I  know  that.     1 

have  been  afraid  to  speak,  but  1  had  to  tell  you  before  I  went. 

r.ive  me  just  the  least  hope  ;  1  will  not  ask  too  nuich,     J  love 

you  so  dearly " 

"Oh,  Dick,  hush  !"  she  cries  out,  shrinking  .nvay  ;  "don't, 
don't  say  another  word.  Oh,  how  .-,tupid  and  blind  1  must  have 
been  !     How  sorry  1  am  for  this  !  " 

"  Sydney,  are  you  s"'"K  'o  send  me  away  ?    Is  there  no  hoi)e 

for  me  ?     I  know  1  am  not  worthy " 

"Worthy!  Mush!  hush!"  she  interrupts  ;"  it  gives  me 
pain  to  hear  you.  You  are  most  worthy,  and  1  like  you,  but — • 
not  in  that  way." 

"There  is  no  hope  for  me,  then?  "  Dick  says,  hoarsely. 
"  None.    1  am  sorry — sorrier  tluiii  sorry  ;  but  you  nuist  never 
S])eak  to  nie  of  this  again. 

There  is  blank  silence  for  a  little.  Dick  stands  and  stares  at 
a  picture  on  the  wall— a  simpering  young  person,  in  a  short  red 
petticoat  and  white  bodice,  about  to  wade,  barefoo^  across  a 
very  blue  brook.  And  months  after,  in  misty  moonlight  niglits, 
lying  beside  his  bivouac  fire,  snioking  liis  short,  black  pipe,  and 
looking  up  at  the  shining  Virginia  stars,  Captaui  Macgregor  sees 
the  simpering  young  person  in  the  short  petticoat,  with  a  curi- 
ous sensation  that  she  is  the  cause  of  the  sharp,  hot  pain  that 


goe> 


s  wi 


til  th 


e  memory 


Dick,"  Sydney  falters  at  last,  looking  up,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  and  touching  wistfully  his  arm— "dear  Dick,  you  are  not 


ans. 


;ry?' 


'  MM 


k  a  scarf  fof 
:1 ;  and  I'-iu- 
k — sliall  tie 

when   it   is 
>ukl  value  it 

•'  Poor  little 


:e  that  trem- 
"  Oh,  don't, 

swers. 

ley,  you  will 
low  that.  I 
fore  J  went, 
ich.     I  love 

ay;  "don't, 
1  must  have 

icre  no  hoi)e 

it  gives  ine 
i  you,  but — 

)arsely. 

I  must  never 

ind  stares  at 
1  a  short  red 
)0*:,  across  a 
nli,;ht  nights, 
Lck  pipe,  and 
legregor  sees 
svith  a  ciui- 
,ot  i)ain  lliat 

^  tears  in  her 
you  are  not 


"Fyi/A"  AS  A  STAA    ■  ,15 

"  Angry,"  he  answers,  in  an  odd,  hushed  :  m      f  voice.  o. 

Cod  bless  you,  Sydney  !  " 

He  goes  abruptly,  drawing  a  deej),  hard  brcalii,  and  pr(  • 
ently  the  street-door  bangs  after  him  ;  and  Sister  Katie,  on  the 
watch-tower,  knows  that  he  has  gone  out  to  cool  off,  and  has 
l)ut  his  f;ite  to  the  touch,  to  win  or  lose  it  all — and  has  pr()bal.)ly 
lost.  J'or  Dick's  success  his  sharp-sighted  sister  has  had  no 
hope  from  the  first. 

Miss  Owenson's  symi)athies  have  ever  been  quick,  but  just  at 
present  she  is  more  than  ordinarily  capable  of  syini)atliy  foi 
l)ick.  "  A  fellow-feeling  makes  us  wondrous  kind,"  The  sur- 
prise of  this  evening  has  been  a  most  distressing  one.  The 
mystery  of  Captain  Dick's  gloom  is  solved,  but  Sydney  would 
have  greatly  preferred  it  had  ever  remained  a  mystery. 

"  'I'o-morrow  night  is  //le  night,"  says  Miss  Macgregor,  saun- 
tering in — "  a  night  big  with  fate  for  me  ;  for  it  is  my  intention 
to  bring  things  to  a  focus  with  Mr.  Vanderdonck.  TIk-  old 
gentleman  has  been  rather  backsliding  lately — rather  inclined 
to  shift  his  allegiance  to  the  Widow  Chester.     I  hate  widows." 

"Yes,  they  are  dangerous;  we  never  needed  Mr.  Weller  to 
tell  us  that,"  laughs  Sydney.  "But  pray  remember  poor  Mr. 
Vanderdonck  was  fidelity  itself  until  you  set  him  the  example 
by  i)a)ing  attentions  to  Mr.  Van  Cuyler." 

"And  Mr,  Van  Cuyler  ignores  me  for  you.  Mr.  "Vander- 
donck goes  over  to  the  enemy,  and  Lewis  Nolan  goes  to 
foreign  parts. 

"  Was  there  ever  a  maid  in  all  this  world 
Sc  crossed  in  love  as  I  ?  " 

sings  Katherine,  lugubriously,  and  with  a  piercing  look  at  Syd- 
ney. 

But  Sydney's  face  baffles  Jier  ;  it  lies  back,  pale  and  rather 
spiritless  against  her  blue  cushioned  chair. 

"What  is  that  you  are  reading?  Oh!  the  riienix Monthly 
md  Van  Cuyler's  new  novel.     How  do  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  As  well  as  most  novels.  They  are  all  alike — with  a  differ- 
ence," Sydney  responds,  rather  listlessly.  "They  all  sing  the 
same  song  of  woman's  peerless  beauty,  man's  deathless  devo- 
tion, or  vice  versd,  with  a  prouer  symphony  of  jealousy, 
heroism,  total  dei)ravity,  or  superhuiuan  self-abnegation." 

"  Jkit  they  set  the  song  to  different  tunes,"  says  Katherine  ; 
"  and  Van  Cuyler's  is  like  himself,  stately  and — slow.  Do  you 
know  what  I  believe  ?  " 


m 


316 


**FAIR  AS  A  STAKy 


«'  Your  beliefs  are  so  many,  my  clear  Katie " 

"  I  l)elii:ve  that  Van  Ciiyler  has  taken  you  for  the  heroine  of 
his  new  story,  '  Fair  as  a  Star.'  " 

"Very  complimentary  to  mo— so  complimentary  that  1  am 
sorry  1  caimol  agree  with  you." 

<'  Why  can  you  not  ?  Tlie  description  tallies  exactly— tall, 
fair,  golden  hair,  blue  eyes,  a  complexion  of  pearl,  a  slender, 
graceful  figure  ;  that  is  you,  is  it  not?  " 

"  it  is  extremely  kind  of  you  to  say  so.  Pray,  do  not  exi)ccfc 
mc  to  answer  a  ciuestion  of  that  ilelicate  nature." 

•'Oh,  nonsense  !  And  the  man  is  in  love  with  you — that  is 
as  unich  as  the  consuming  passion  he  cherishes  for  himself  will 
allow  him.      It  is  patent  to  tlie  dullest  observer." 

"  L  nuist  be  a  very  dull  observer  then,  for  it  is  by  no  means 
patent  to  me.  Mr.  Krnesl  Vandervelde  Van  Cuyler— that  is  his 
distinguished  name  in  full,  is  it  not  ?— has  certainly  stooi)ed  from 
those  heights  of  high-and  mightydom  whereon  genius  dwells,  to 
honor  me  with  his  notice  on  several  festive  occasions.  Over[)ow- 
ei  ing  as  the  honor  is,  1  have  survived  it,  as  you  see,  and  though 
it  should  be  repeated  to-morrow  night,  still  hope  to  do  so." 

"  Sydney,"  says  Katie,  with  real  solemnity,  "  answer  me  this  : 
If  Krnest  Van  Cuyler — rich,  aristocratic,  talented,  famous, 
handsome— asks  you  to  marry  him,  will  you  say  no?" 

"  Katie,"  responds  Sydney,  taking  an  easier  positioii  in  her 
easy  chair,  "when  Mr.  Ernest  Van  Cuyler  asks  me,  I  will— an- 
swer iM-nest  V^'in  Cuyler.     Now  please  spare  my  blushes." 

"  1  believe,  after  all,  she  is  engaged  to  the  baronet,"  rumi- 
nates Katie  Macgregor;  "she  has  'cfused  Dick,  and  doesn't 
seem  to  care  whether  Lewis  Nolan  goes  or  stays.  And  unless 
she  is  engaged  to  Sir  Harry,  she  never  in  her  senses  would  re- 
ject Van  Cuyler." 

For  Krnest  Vanderv^lde  Van  Cuyler  was  a  very  great  man  in 
very  many  ways,  T'  \dest  of  all  old  Knickerbocker  families 
was  his,  and  if  Mr.  V.  V.  C.  had  a  fault,  it  was  that  he  was 
rather  too  fond  of  "  shinning  up  his  genealogical  tree."  'I'iie 
family  homestead  was  as  ancient  as  the  hrst  Dutch  settlement 
of  Manhattan,  and  that  is  blue  blood  surely  in  New  York.  He 
was  rich— held  indeed,  the  purse  of  a  Fortunatus.  He  was 
clever— his  novel  of  "  Hard  Hit,"  two  years  before,  had  hit  the 

ailed  it  an  AmcM-ican  "  Pelh.am,"  and 


jjublic  fancy ;  the  ]>re; 


predicted  great  things  I 


for  tills  risiu'^  genius,  anil  the  rest  of  the 


press  cho|)ped   it   in   vinegxr,  and  the  more    they  chopped   the 
better  the  book  sold,      in  addition  to  all  tliese  virtues,  he  was 


I 


**FAIR  AS  A   STAR» 


3'7 


hcioine  of 

that  I  am 

aclly — tall, 
,  a  slender, 

not  cxi)cct 

'Oil — that  is 
himself  will 

y  no  means 
— tliaf  is  his 
ooped  from 
IS  dwells,  to 
Over[)ow- 
and  though 
doso." 
i^er  me  this : 
.'d,  famous, 
?" 

iition  in  her 
,  1  will— an- 
ushes." 
met,"  rumi- 
and  doesn't 
And  unless 
2S  would  re- 
treat man  in 
:ker  families 
that  he  was 
tree."  The 
1  settlement 
York.  He 
s.  He  was 
,  had  hit  the 
elham,"  and 
•  rest  of  the 
:hoi)i)ed  the 
tues,  he  was 


most  unnecessarily  good  looking— a  tall,  blonde,  melancholy 
Hamlet,  with  cold,  colorless  eyes,  and  the  general  air  of  an 
exiled  prince.  A  trille  self  conscious  maybe,  no  end  conceited, 
anil  looking  out  of  those  cold  blue  eyes  of  his  upon  all  the  drlj. 
cate  loveliness  of  .  ..,»r  York  belle  dom  perfectly  unmoved. 
'I'lu-y  sharpened  their  toy  bows  and  arrows,  did  those  fair 
daughters  of  (Jotham,  and  took  aim  often  and  well  ;  but  this 
gold  ]4umaged  bird  of  paradise  Hew  too  high  for  their  shooting. 
And  It  \yas  Sydney  Owenson  who  in  her  secret  heart  thought 
him  I  prig  ami  a  bore,  at  whose  shrine  Prince  Charming  seeined 
at  last  inclined  to  bow. 

It  was  Carnival  time  :  next  week  Lent  would  begin,  and  the 
last  bail  of  the  season  was  to  be  a  very  grand  one.  Miss  Owen- 
son  in  white  lace— an  imported  dress  fit  for  a  lady-in  waiting, 
and  pearls  and  creamy  white  roses,  looked  like  a  vision,  and  s°j 
Mr.  Van  Cuyler  seemed  to  think.  In  a  dignified  and  upliUed 
way  he  paid  court  to  her  all  night.  He  was  harder  hit  than 
even  sharp-sighted  Katie  suspected,  and  more  than  once— still 
uplifted— made  an  effort  to  obtain  a  private  audience.  I'.iit 
Sydney's  intuitions  were  correct  here,  and  she  skilfully  evaded 
it.  I'erlia))s  she  thought  one  declaration  in  a  week  (juite 
enough  !  Dick's  dreary  face  made  her  misorablo  whenever  she 
looked  at  it.  Not  that  it  would  give  her  the  sam(3  pain  to  refuse 
Mr.  Van  Cuyler,  but  refusing  was  tiresome  and  profitless  work 
to  one  not  brought  up  to  the  business.  So,  although  the  "  tal- 
ented young  author"  did  his  best,  made  his  attentions  so  pro- 
nounced that  he  who  ran  might  read,  Miss  Owenson,  with  the 
calm  generalship  which  comes  naturally  to  women,  oiit-mameu- 
vered  every  move.  Not  once  could  Mr.  Van  Cuyler  tind  hiin- 
belf  alone  with  her. 

But  next  day  at  luncheon,  there  lay  beside  her  plate  a  letter 
—-a  square,  determined-looking  letter,  in  almost  illegible  chir- 
ography. 

"  Are  you  certain  it  is  for  me  ?  "  says  Sydney,  eying  it  Jubi- 
ously,  and  trying  to  decipher  her  own  name.  "If  it  were 
a  doctor's  dun,  or  a  lawyer's  bill,  the  writing  could  not  be 
worse." 

"  Or  an  author's  autograph,"  says  Katie,  maliciously. 
"  Hand  it  here.  To  be  sure— '  Miss  Sydney  Owenson,'  any- 
body might  read  it— after  studying  it  ten  minutes.  Monogram 
in  scarlet  and  guUl,  '  K.  V.  C',  ail  iiuips  and  quirls—palo  gray 
wax,  with  a  coat  of  arms,  and  a  motto  in  one  of  the  dead  lan- 
guages." 


3tS 


^'FAIR   AS  A   star:' 


"  Irish,  maybe,"  suggests  Dick.  It  is  his  last  day  home,  and 
no  one  smiles  at  the  gliostly  attempt. 

Sydney  put  it  ([uietly  in  ht;r  i)ucket.  Instinctively  she  felt 
what  it  contained,  felt  tliat  it  was  a  letter  not  to  be  read  here. 
Lunclieon  ended,  she  went  ui)-stairs  and  opened  Mr.  Van  Cuy- 
ler's  elegant  epistle  : 


"  Clarendon  Hotel,   Feb.  6th,  i8 — 

*'  My  Dear  Miss  Owenson." 

That  much  Sydney  could  make  out  without  much  difficulty, 

but  the  rest Fortunately  it  was  not  long  ;  autliors,  as  a  rule, 

whatever  their  sins,  are  seldom  guilty  of  long  letters.  This  was 
three  small  pages,  no  more.  Conscientiously  Sydney  set  herself 
Lo  the  task,  half-an-hour  to  each  page,  and  by  dint  of  skijjping 
a  word  here,  guessing  a  word  there,  reached  the  end  at  last.  If 
his  writing  was  bad,  his  English  was  gootl  ;  in  the  most  courtly 
and  grandio.-,e  manner  Mr.  Van  Cuyler  told  the  tale  of  his  love, 
and  asked  Miss  Owenson  to  become  his  wife. 

Sydney  sighed  a  little  as  she  laid  it  down.  After  all,  to  win 
the  affections  of  such  men  Sir  Harry  Leonard  and  Ernest  Van 
Cuyler  was  an  honor.  Why  was  it  she  could  feel  no  answering 
affection  for  either?  Why  was  it  that  erratic  heart  of  hers,  un- 
touclied  all  these  years,  had  gone  at  last,  unasked,  to  a  man 
whom  her  world  would  have  called  beneath  her  ? — a  man  far 
less  handsome,  and  no  more  talented  than  Van  Cuyler,  with 
neither  name  nor  fortune  to  offer  her?  IV/iy  (}k\  she  care  for 
him  ?  Why  did  his  face  haunt  her  so  persistently,  his  voice 
sound  ceaselessly  in  her  ear,  his  most  careless  words  linger  in 
lier  memory  ?  Why  could  she  not  forget  him  ?  What  was  there 
in  him  or  about  him,  beyond  other  men,  that  he  and  he  alone 
should  have  power  to  disturb  her  peace  ? 

"Curious  fool  be  still — 

Is  human  love  the  growth  of  human  will  ?  " 

Surely  not,  for  Sydni^y  Owenson  had  never  willed  to  fall  in 
love  with  Lewis  Nolan. 

That  very  same  night  Mr.  Van  Cuyler  received  his  answer; 
next  morning  he  departed  from  New  York  ;  a  week  later,  and  on 
a  Havre  stcauicr  he  was  luili-way  across  the  Atlantic.  Terhaps 
the  author  of  "Hard  Hit"  and  "J'air  as  a  Star"  was  riglit — 
there  can  no  more  effectual  remedy  for  love-sickness  than  sea 


i  ill 


y  home,  and 

ively  she  fclf 
0  read  h(!re. 
r.  Van  Ciiy- 


()th,  i8— 


ch  difficulty, 
3rs,  as  a  rule, 
s.  This  was 
y  set  herself 
oi  skii)ping 
1  at  last.  If 
nost  courtly 
e  of  his  love, 

•  all,  to  win 
Ernest  Van 
lo  answering 
of  hers,  un- 
1,  to  a  man 
—a  man  far 
Cuyler,  with 
she  care  for 
;ly,  his  voice 
ds  linger  in 
liat  was  there 
i\d  he  alone 


;d  to  fall  in 

his  answer; 
later,  and  on 
ic.      renuiiJb 

was  right — 
ss  than  sea 


TWILIGHT  IN  LUCY'S  ROOM. 


3^9 


sickness.     It  was  a  short  answer,  too,  to  send  a  man  on  so  long 
a  journey : 

"  Dkak  Mr.  Van  Cuvler  :  Your  letter  has  touched  me 
di!C()ly  ;  believe  me  1  feel  all  the  honor  your  preference  does 
me  cjuite  as  much  as  if  1  accepted.  lUit  I  cannot  accept.  1  do 
not  love  you.  1  never  can.  Regretting  that  1  should  give  you 
pain,  I  am, 

"  Very  sincerely,  your  friend, 

''  Sydney  Owenson. 

"P..?. — My  decision  is  irrevocable.  1  trust  you  will  not 
heedlessly  pain  us  both  by  attempting  to  change  it.      S.  O." 


chaptp:r  VIII. 

TWILIGHT    IN    LUCY's    ROOM. 

!l  ND  now  Miss  Owenson  is  rid  of  all  her  lovers,  Dick  de- 
l)arts  for  the  fighting  ground  of  the  South,  and  Ernest 
Van  Cuyler  disappears  all  at  once,  and  is  in  Paris 
before  he  has  been  properly  missed.  He  is  a  young 
man  not  used  to  the  word  No  ;  and  wounded  pride,  and  hurt  self- 
love,  and  mortified  vanity,  have  i)erhaps  as  much  to  do  with  his 
chagrined  flight  as  the  tender  passion.  In  the  mysterious  way 
these  things  get  wind,  it  it;  vvhisi)ered  about  in  awe-struck  under- 
tones that  Miss  Owenson  has  rejected  him,  the  parti  oiihti  season. 

"  Is  she  insane,  1  wonder  ?"  Mrs.  Macgregor  asks,  rather  bit- 
terly, "to  refuse  Van  Cuyler.  For  whom  is  she  waiting— a 
[)rince  of  the  blood  royal  ?  '' 

For  Aunt  Helen  is  fiercely  angry  and  disapi)ointed,  not  that 
she  has  rejected  Van  Cuyler,  but  that  she  has  rejected  Dick. 

More  than  even  Katie  suspects  her  mother  has  counted  oa 
this  match.  To  keep  the  Owenson  shekels  in  the  family,  to 
pay  her  debts,  to  provide  herself  with  a  home  for  life  free  of  cost 
and  worry — that  has  been  her  dream. 

The  dream  is  at  an  end.  Sydney  has  refused  him,  and  the 
way  out  of  her  ditficulties  seems  as  far  off  as  ever.  Her  daugh- 
ter is  disappointing  her  even  more  bitterly  than  her  son  ;  the 
winter  campaign  is  ended,  and  Mr.  Vonderd:)nck  has  left  town, 


3-0 


TWiuanr  /.v  lccy^s  room. 


\ 


F 


liis  own  .(ml  and  master  still.     In  a  {^\s  months  another  season 
of  expense  and  watering-places  will  begin. 

Kalherine  was  live-and  twenty  last  birthday,  and  is  fjot  grow- 
mg  younger  with  every  i)assing  year.  Siie  was  one  of  tlie  innu- 
merable "  Marthas  "  of  the  world,  "troubled  and  anxious  about 
many  thnigs,"  and  daily  that  austere  Roman  nose  grew  more  and 
more  austere,  the  cold  blue  eyes  harder  and  more  ha^^gard  the 
crow's-feet  ploughed  in  deeper  ridges,  and  her  mannt-r  to  her 
cousin's  daughter  as  frigid  as  her  great  respect  for  that  youiiji 
lady  s  fortune  would  allow, 

Sunday  in  the  Nfacgregor  mansion  was  at  all  times  rather  a 
dreary  day— the  Sunday  following  Dick's  dei)arture  more  than  usu- 
ally dreary.  In  the  hrst  place  it  rained,  not  a  hearty  down-pour, 
but  a  miserable,  ceaseless,  chilling  February  dri/zlc,  that  blotted 
out  heaven  above  and  earth  beneath,  in  a  wet  blank  of  fog  and 
mist.  Miss  Owenson,  who  was  somewhat  of  a  devotee  in  the 
eyes  of  the  fanuly,  arose  early  and  went  tt)  church.  Katie  slept  un- 
til noon,  and  came  down,  yawning  and  slipshod,  to  luncheon.  It 
was  a  dismal  meal;  Aunt  Helen's  face  looked  cold,  and  irrav, 
and  hard  as  stoae. 

/'Poor  Dick  !  1  wonder  if  they  are  fighting  down  there  in  this 
rain,  says  Katie.  "What  a  desolate  day  Simday  is,  and  only 
kist  week  they  told  us  in  the  sermon,  that  heaven  would  be  one 
|)erpetual  Sabbath!  Sunday's  rain  is  wetter,  Sunday's  cold 
crlder,  Sunday's  heat  hotter,  and  Sunday's  blues  bluer,  than  any 
other  of  the  week."  ^ 

"  Your  iiiental  thermometer  has  fallen  since  last  night  "  Syd- 
ney remarks.  "  You  were  in  wild,  high  spirits  starting  for  Mrs. 
Holland  s  soiree  musicaley 

"Natural  reaction,  my  dear.  I  am  like  a  bottle  of  champagne, 
all  fizz  and  sparkle  overnight,  dead  Hat  next  morning.  And 
my  last  state  is  worse  than  my  first.  After  all,  I  am  half  glad 
the  wear  and  tear  of  the  season  is  over,  and  Lent  at  hand,  to 
give  us  a  chance  to  recruit.  Even  perpetual  parties  become  a 
I'ore,  the  theatre  monotonous,  the  opera  a  dreary  delusion, 
i/aily  church-going  will  be  a  diversion,  and  1  don't  mind  fastiiiL' 
on  rock-ftsh  and  oysters.  Apropos  of  the  opera,  will  you  go  to 
hear  'II  Puritani '  m  the  Academy  to-morrow  night?" 

"Yes— no— I   don't  know,  I  will  be  better  able  to  tell  you 
when  to-morrow  night  comes,"  Sydney  answers,  wearilv. 
_     1  he  weather,  the  change  in   Mrs.  Macgregor,  or  something, 
IS    producing   Us    effect   on    Miss  Owenson's  splendid  vitality 
and    si)ints.     'lo-day  she   looks  pale  and   fagged,  listless  and 


■■'*ikn*"«>i^iiQHlNSiWilft  1 


other  season 

is  7jot  grow- 
'  of  the  innu- 
mxioiis  about 
ew  more  and 
haggard,  the 
inner  to  her 
"  tliat  young 

mcs  rather  a 
lore  tlian  iisii- 
y'  down-pour, 
,  that  blotted 
ik  of  fog  and 
^otee  in  the 
atie  slept  un- 
uicheon.  It 
id,  and  gray, 

there  in  this 
is,  and  only 
CHild  be  one 
mday's  cold 
>er,  than  any 

night,"  Syd- 
ingfor  Mrs. 

champagne, 
■ning.  And 
ui  half  glad 
at  hand,  to 
s  become  a 
ry  delusion, 
nind  fasting 
11  you  go  to 
?" 

to  tell  you 
irily. 

something, 
idid  vitality 
listless  and 


! 


f 


TlVILIGffT  IN  LUCY'S  ROOM. 


52' 


dreary,  and  the  moment  luncheon  ends  goes  back  to  her  own 
room. 

"It's  my  opinion,  madre  viio,"  says  Katie,  taking  up  a  novel 
and  glancmg  carelessly  at  her  parent,  "  that  if  that  Spartan  sever- 
ity ot  manner  of  yours  doesn't  thaw  out,  Sydney  Owenson  will 
take  wmg  one  of  these  days  and  Hv  back  to  her  English  friends 
You  see  she  is  not  used  to  that  sort  of  thing  ;  sh.^has  lived  in 
an  atmosphere  of  petting  all  her  life,  and  doesn't  understand  it. 
Mrs.  Owenson  was  one  of  those  weak  characterless  creatures 
wiio  never  scold  and  make  everybody  about  them  miserable 
for  then-  good,  and  Sydney  naturally  doesn't  take  to  it  now.  I 
merely  throw  out  the  suggestion,  mamma  ;  you  will  continue  to 
act  of  course  as  your  superior  wisdom  may  suggest." 

Then,  novel  in  hand,  i)lacidly  ignoiing  her  mother's  irritated 
reply,  Kathenne  saunters  away  to  read  until  dinner. 

Katherme  was  right  ;  S)dney  was  half  meditating  a  flight 
across  the  ocean.  J.ow  sjjirits  rarely,  almost  never,  attacked 
her  ;  her  nature  was  tiioroughly  strong,  sunny,  and  inclined  to 
"serve  the  L'nxX  with  a  cheerful  lieart ;  "  but  she  was  miserably 
out  ot  sorts  to-day.  How  unkind  of  Aunt  Helen  to  visit  it  upon 
her  that  she  could  not  marry  Dick.  In  spite  of  her  riches  how 
poor  she  was  after  all,  fatherless,  motherless,  homeless— alone. 
Slie  closed  her  eyes,  and  leaned  her  head,  in  a  tired  way,  a<^ainst 
the  back  of  her  chair.  If  she  could  only  have  said  "  cSme  " 
to  Sir  Harry  Leonard,  and  sailed  away  with  him  to  the  dear 
romantic  old  Cornish  house,  where  cold  looks  and  icy  speeclu-s 
would  never  have  embittered  her  life.  And  yet  how  could  she 
go  back  now  ? 

"  U  mamma  had  not  sold  Owenson  Place  1  might  return 
there,  hnd  some  nice  old  lady  to  keep  house  for  me,  and  have 
a  liome,  a  real  home,  a  home  of  my  own  at  last.  Or  if  I  ;ould 
hnd  Cyrilla  Houdnck— dear  old  Cy— we  might  start  off  to  Italy 
anc  be  tree  and  happy  in  the  gypsy,  rambling  way  poor  mamma 
and  1  lived  so  long." 

The  rain  beat  and  i)attered  against  the  glass  all  day  as  Syd- 
ney sat  homesick  and  lonesome.  She  had  felt  from  the  llrst 
lliat  this  house  could  never  be  home,  her  relatives  never  friends. 
S  ic  was  convinced  of  it  now.  To  be  in  Tucy  Nolan's  little 
while  chamber,  with  Lucy's  gentle  face  to  make  her  patient, 
l.ucy  s  tender  voice  to  soothe  her  sorrows,  would  have  been 
comtort  ;  but  Sunday  was  his  day  home,  and  on  Sunday  she 
never  went.  ^ 

Sunday  ended,  and  Monday  morning's   sunshine  and  bustle 
14* 


*,•• 

V'*^:* 


r 


322 


TWII.IGIIT  IN  LUCY'S  ROOM 


lif  ! 


''•"Bp-  f 


dissipated  the  vapors.  After  all,  what  was  she  that  life  shoild 
not  bring  its  dark  days  ?  She  must  take  the  bitter  with  the 
sweet,  Hke  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  make  up  her  mind  to  life 
as  she  found  it. 

Monday  morning  brought  a  note  from  Lucy  Nolan. 

"  To-morrow  is  Slirove  Tuesday,"  Lucy  wrote  ;  "  and  mother 
is  famous  for  her  Shrove  'I'uesday  pancakes.  Will  you  not 
come  and  try  one  ?  You  have  not  been  to  see  me  in  five 
days." 

"  Poor  little  Lucy  !  Yes,  I  will  go."  Sydney  thought  half 
remorsefully,  *'  why  should  any  foolish  feelings  of  my  own  keep 
m(^  away  since  my  going  gives  her  pleasure?  She,  poor  child, 
who  has  so  few." 

She  sent  a  brief  word  of  acceptance  with  the  messenger.  In 
the  afternoon  she  went  with  Katherine  to  return  calls  ;  in  the 
evening  she  went  with  her  cousin's  party  to  the  Academy.  It 
was  a  more  than  usually  biilHant  night — bows  and  smiles  greeted 
tlicin  on  every  hand  ;  Miss  Owenson  was  a  universal  favorite  in 
society. 

"  i  said  yesterday,  I  had  no  friends,"  she  thought,  with  a  half 
smile.  "  It  seems  I  was  mistaken.  I  shall  never  lack  friends 
while  I  remain  an  heiress." 

"  Evil  communications,"  etc.  Five  months  of  Katherine 
Macgregor's  society  was  making  even  Sydney  cynical.  She  sat 
raUier  silent  in  the  midst  of  her  gay  circle,  lying  listlessly  back 
in  her  chair,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  stage  and  the  singers, 
Presently  Katie  leaned  forward,  and  spoke  in  a  half  whisper  : 

*'  Look,  Sydney,  there  are  the  Graliam  f;imily.  Tiiat  very 
stylish  girl  in  the  striped  opera-cloak  and  with  the  scarlet  ca- 
melias  is  Mrs.  Graham's  sister.  And — ])ositively,  yes — Lewis 
Nolan  is  with  them.  I  thought  he  had  left  this  wicked  world 
altogether  of  late." 

Sydney  glanced  across,  and  saw  her  large  friend,  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham, as  usual,  in  loudly  swearing  colors,  and  by  her  side  an  ex- 
tremely graceful  and  rather  fragile-looking  girl,  in  an  opera 
wrap  of  distinguished  hues.  Leaning  across  xVTrs.  Graham' 
chair  was  Lewis  Nolan,  his  eyes  u[)on  the  prima  donna  of  the 
night,  evidently  absorbed  in  the  music.  The  young  lady  leaned 
back  in  her  chair,  and  addressed  him  with  a  coquettish  smile. 


lit 


Mit  his  tall  licad  to  catch  her  remark  with  an  amused  e; 


pression 


What !  "  ex-laimed  a  gentleman  of  Miss  Macgregor's  party, 
"is   Nolan  going    in  ioi    Nellie   Lincoln?      I  never   thought 


,  ii-,:-jtsmiimmAi,'i'niit 


TWILIGHT  IN  LUCY'S  ROOM. 


323 


bat  life  slioUd 
•ittcr  with  the 
r  niind  to  life 

)lan. 

"and  mother 
Will  you  not 
ee  me  in  five 

1  thought  half 
my  own  keep 
le,  poor  child, 


essenger. 


In 

calls  ;  in  the 
Academy.  It 
smiles  greeted 
•sal  favorite  in 

lit,  with  a  half 
ir  lack  friends 

of  Katherine 
ical.  She  sat 
listlessly  back 
I  the  singers, 
alf  whisper : 
'.  That  very 
:he  scarlet  ca- 
y,  yes — Ivcwis 
wicked   world 

id,  Mrs.  Gra- 
ler  side  an  ex- 
,  in  an  opera 
Trs.  (irahani' 
donna  of  tlie 
ng  lady  leaned 
pieltish  smile, 
,n  amused  ex- 

gregor's  party, 
never   thought 


of  it  before,  but  tlie  whole  thing  would  arrange  itself  beauti- 
fully.  She  is  Graham's  sister-in-law  ;  her  family  have  botli  money 
and  influence.  With  his  talents  all  he  wants  is  a  push  upward, 
and  if  he  does  not  get  the  push,  even  his  talent  will  find  it  up- 
hill work,  heavily  weighted  as  he  is  in  the  race  of  life." 

"  I  understood  Mr.  Nolan  was  going  to  California  to  seek 
his  fortune,"  observed  Katie. 

"  Hut  if  he  finds  the  fortune  ready  made  to  his  hand  at  home? 
Why  go  to  California  for  what  he  can  get  in  New  York  ?  " 

"  VVhy,Jndeed,  if  he  can  get  it,  of  which  I  am  not  at  all 
sure.  He  is  a  friend  of  the  (irahams,  and  has  a  passion  for 
music,  conse(}uenlly  Mrs.  Graham  makes  him  do  escort  duty 
for  her  husband.  1  do  not  believe  there  is  anything  between 
Miss  Lincoln  and Sydney,  they  are  bowing." 

Mrs.  Graham,  sweeping  the  house  with  her  double  barrels, 
espied  the  cousins,  and  bowed.  Then  she  spoke  to  her  escort, 
and  Mr.  Nolan,  glancing  across,  bowed  in  his  turn. 

"What  a  very  lovely  face!"  said  Mrs.  Graham's  sister. 
"Your  description  has  not  done  Miss  Owenson  justice.  Does 
she  not  make  a  picture,  Mr.  Nolan,  as  she  sits  there,  with  all 
that  golden  hair  and  that  scarlet  drapery  ?  I  never  saw  a 
sweeter  face." 

"About  Miss  Owenson's  beauty  there  can  be  no  two  opin- 
ions," is  Mr.  Nolan's  answer. 

"And  as  good  as  she  is  beautiful,"  says  enthusiastic  Mrs. 
Graham  : — "  it  is  a  heart  of  gold.  There  is  a  fascination  about 
her  that  won  my  heart  at  sight." 

"  Ah  !  but  Mrs.  Ciraham's  heart  is  so  very  easily  won,"  says 
Nolan. 

"And  so  very  often,"  says  Mrs.  Graham's  sister,  "  I  never 
pay  any  attention  to  Bella's  rhai)sodies ;  she  is  always  infatu- 
a'ed  about  somebody  ;  but  really,  Miss  Owenson  justifies  a 
little  raving.  They  say  she  even  captured  the  invincible  Ernest 
Van  Cuyler," 

"So  it  is  said,"  Nolan  answers.  "Mr.  Van  Cuyler's  taste 
is  excellent." 

"  I  wonder  if  there  is  anything  in  that,  Sydney  ?  "  Katie  re- 
marks, as  they  go  home.  "I  wonder  if  Lewis  Nolan  is  really 
cpris  o{  Nellie  Lincoln?  As  Major  Lloyd  said,  a  little  while 
ago,  it  is  just  the  start  in  life  he  wants.     He  could  not  do  bctten" 

"Let  us  hope  it  is  so,  then,"  Sydney  responds,  serenely 
"  Whatever  good  fortune  befall  him,  1  am  ujitc  sure  it  is  de 


served. 


^24 


TWI LIGHT  IN  LUCV:;  ROOM. 


Hi 

\ 

\ 
\ 

I 

Katie  looks  at  her  earnestly  ;  she  is  shrewd,  but  she  ,3  baf- 
lied. 

"  No,"  she  thinks,  "  she  does  not  care.  She  never  could 
look  like  that  if  she  did." 

An  influx  of  callers  next  day  detained  Sydney  in  the  drawinir. 
rooin  until  quite  late.  It  was  half  past  four  before  she  could 
make  her  escape  and  change  her  dress  to  visit  Lucy.  She  was 
feverishly  eager  to  go— ])erhai)s  there  she  would  hear  whether 
there  were  any  truth  in  this  new  rumor  or  no 

She  rode  to  her  destination,  but  it  was  nearly  six  before  she 
reached  the  house.  Lucy  would  be  waiting,  would  think  she 
(lid  not  niean  to  come,  and  she  hurried  in,  opening  the  house 
door  without  knocking.  She  looked  into  the  parlor— no  one 
there.  She  turned  and  ran  lightly  up  to  Lucy's  room.  In  the 
doorway  she  paused,  struck  by  the  picture  before  her.  Com- 
ing darkness  shadowed  the  little  chamber,  the  hre  in  the  grate 
had  burned  low  and  cast  fitful  gleajns  over  everything.  Lucy  sat 
in  her  accustomed  place,  and  leaning  over  the  back  of  her  chair 
was  Lucy's  brother.  Neither  saw  her  from  their  position,  both 
were  absorbed,  and  it  was  her  own  name,  uttered  by  Lewis  No- 
lan, that  chained  her  to  the  sjiot. 

"Sydney  Owenson,"  he  was  saying,  in  an  intense  tone  of  con 
centrated  feeling.  "Yes,  Lucy,  you  have  guessed  the  truth 
It  IS  because  1  dare  not  see  her,  that  I  avoid  her,  because  I  have 
no  trust  in  niy  own  strength,  that  I  shun  her  presence.  If  I  met 
her  -^ftener  than  I  do,  I  would  have  neither  self-control  nor  power 
left.  There  are  some  temptations  a  man  can  face,  defy,  and 
trample  under  foot— there  are  others  from  which  flight  is  the 
only  salvation.     This  is  one.  " 

"I  have  suspected  this,"  Lucy  said.  <'Who  could  see  her 
and  not  love  her,  so  lovely,  and  so  lovable,  so  tiue,  and  tender, 
and  sweet  ?  " 

"And  so  far  above  us.  She  does  not  suspect  my  presump- 
tuous folly  ?" 

"  1  think  not.  I  am  sure  not.  But,  Lewis,  is  it  such  presump- 
tuous  folly  ?  I  know  she  is  very  wealthy,  and  of  a  very  proud 
family  ;  but  is  mere  wealth,  then,  such  an  insuperable  barrier  ? 
Why  not  tell  her  at  least  before  you  go?  It  is  only  fair  she 
should  have  a  voice  in  the  matter,  since  you  go  on  her  account. 
She  is  so  gentle,  so  good,  she  would  not  look  upon  it  as  presump- 


tuous folly  even  if  she  refused  you 


J'Aen  if  she  refuscil  me,"    I 


ewis  repeats  with  a  short  lauiih. 


'Your  knowledge  of  the  world  is  limited,  Lucy,  but  even 


ov 


she*  ,3  baf- 
never   could 

the  drawing. 
i  she  could 
r.  She  was 
,'ar    whether 

before  she 
d  think  she 
;  the  house 
or — no  one 
)in.  In  the 
her.  Coai- 
1  the  grate 
;.  Lucy  sat 
of  her  chair 
)sition,  both 
/  Lewis  No- 
one  of  con 
i\  the  truth 
;ause  I  have 
^  If  I  met 
»1  nor  power 
i,  defy,  and 
flight  is  the 

lid  see  her 
and  tender, 

y  presump- 

:h  presunn>- 
very  i)roud 
»le  barrier? 
)ly  fair  she 
er  account, 
ispresump- 

;hort  laugh. 
It  even  yov 


TWILiJIIT  IN  LUCY  S  ROOM.  3^5 

can  hardly  doubt  that.  She  is  surrounded  by  suitors  of  a  beauty 
and  a  fortune  eciual  to  her  own,  and  Van  Cuyler,  surrounded  by 
a  glamor  of  fiune,  at  their  head.  Nothing  succeeds  like  success. 
Van  Cuyler  will  win  her,  antl  I—will  carry  the  crowning  mad- 
ness of  my  life  with  me  to  Sacramento,  and  in  new  scenes  and 
hard  work  live  't  down." 

The  spell  is  broken.     Sydney  makes  a  step  forward  and  stands 
still.     Lewis  Nolan  starts  around,    Lucy   utters  aery;    Miss. 
Owenson,  pale  as  ashes,  trembling  violently,  comes  forward. 
"  I— I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  says,  in  a  gasping  voice,  "  I  did 

not  mean  to  listen.     But  I  caught  my  name  and " 

_    She  comes  over  to  Lucy's  side  ;  and  Lucy  takes  the  two  hands, 
nnplonngly  held  out,  in  hers,  and  clasps  them  hard. 

"Vou  have  heard,"  Mr.  Nolan  asks,  quite  white  with  the 
shock  of  his  surprise. 

"AH.    _Oh!  forgive  me.    Indeed  I  did  not  mean  to  listen " 

"Forgive  you  .'"  he  repeats,  mastering  himself  by  an  effort. 
"l]ut  you  will  do  me  the  justice,  I  am  sure,  to  believe  1  would 
not  wilfully  have  pained  you  by  this  avowal." 

She  stands  silent,  but  her  color  is  coming  and  going,  her  breath 
quick,  her  eyes  intent  upon  the  carpet  pattern. 

Lewis  Nolan,  in  spite  of  the  poverty  of  his  antecedents,  is 
an  adei)t  in  the  polite  art  of  self-repression.  He  holds  himself 
well  in  hand  now. 

"  My  sister  has  been  trying  to  overthrow  my  resolution  of 
going  away  next  month,"  he  says,  but  the  deatUy  [)allor  of  his 
face  belies  the  calmness  of  voice  and  words,  "and  in  an  uncon- 
trollable moment  1  have  told  her  the  trutii.  That  I  have  learned 
to  love  you  is  at  once  my  loss  and  my  gain,  but  knowing  its 
hopelessness  I  never  meant  to  pain  you  by  the  knowledge.  Now 
that  by  chance  you  have  heard,  if  it  does  pain  you,  you  will  still 
forgive  me,  I  am  sure." 

She  stands  silent.     "  Forgive  him  !  "     He  only  asks  that. 
"Have  I  indeed  offended  you?"   he  savs,  coming  nearer. 
"Shall  we  not  part  friends,  then,  after  all  ?  "' 

Part  ?  She  cannot  bear  that.  She  sinks  down  on  her  knees, 
and  lays  her  face  against  her  friend. 

"Tell  him,  Lucy,"— clinging  to  Lucy's  hands— "jw/  know." 
And  Lucy  laughs  softly  at  the  little  comedy  of  errors,  and 
holds  her  close,  and  looks  triurni)hanlly  at  iicr  bruchcr. 

Miss  Owenson  !  "  he  cries—"  Sydney,  what  does  this  mean  ?" 


•  Oh,  stui)id  Lewis  !  "Lucy  laughs  ;  "  how  bhiul 


means  you  are  not  to  go  to  Sacramento— that  is  all. 


men  are 


It 


3-'6         *'VVIIAT  SOME  HAVE  FOUND  SO  SIVEET» 


CHAPTER  IX. 


1 

1- 1 

I 

"MY    I.IFK    HAS    FOUND    WHAT   SOME    HAVE    FOUND   SO   SWEET." 

T  is  lialf-an-hour  later. 

Twilight,  i)alc  and  gray,  has  given  place  to  night: 
outsido  the  frost  February  stars  sparkle,  and  a  new 
moon  glimmers  like  a  broken  silver  ring.  Inside,  the 
red  glow  of  the  fire  still  fitfidly  liglits  the  room,  and  lingers  on 
the  two  figures  standing  at  the  ivy-wreathed  window,  and  on 
Lucy  Nolan  lying  back,  her  eyes  upon  them,  her  hands  clasped, 
l)raying,  i)erhaps,  but  with  a  face  of  infinite  content.  For  the 
two  persons  most  interested,  they  just  stand  here  and  say  very 
little.  They  have  said  very  little  in  the  i)ast  half-hour,  but 
Sydney  knows  that  the  desire  of  her  heart  is  hers.  And  Lewis 
Nolan  knows,  that  what  in  his  wildest  moments  of  hope  he 
never  dared  hope  for,  wiial  Ernest  Van  Cuyler  has  vainly  sought, 
is  his.  And  among  all  the  elect  of  Mammon,  whom  the  news 
will  |)robably  shock  and  amaze,  not  one  will  be  more  honestly 
surprised  than  is  at  this  moment  the  happy  man  himself.  He 
has  s|)oken  little  either  «>f  love,  or  rapture,  or  gratitude,  as  they 
linger  iiere.  Long  ago— lie  is  u, inking  of  it  as  he  stands  by  Syd- 
ney Owenson's  side  and  gazes  out  into  the  starry  darkness — 
the  strong  passions  nature  has  given  him,  slipped  their  leash, 
and  the  memory  of  that  time  has  darkened  his  whole  after-life. 
Tiie  i)ower  of  self-rei)ression,  his  life-study  since,  has  become 
second  nature  now,  and  he  stands  beside  the  beautiful  woman 
he  has  never  hoped  to  win,  and  keeps  those  turbulent  emotions 
of  joy  and  U)ve  well  reined  in.  lUit  Sydney  is  content,  the  si- 
lence is  clfujuent,  and  liis  few  broken  words,  his  face,  his  ey. 
have  told  \wv  all  she  asks  to  know. 

"  S}  ilney,"  he  says,  and  the  name  comes  as  naturally  to  his 
lips  as  though  they  had  si)oken  it  for  years,  "  Mrs.  Macgregor 
will  never  consent." 

S)cliiey,  leaning  lightly  against  the  window  frame,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  that  broken,  little  yellow  moon,  smiles  dreamily,  and 
glances  shyly  ui)  in  her  tall  lover's  face. 

'>  Will  she  not?  Very  likely.  But  it  doesn't  matter,  does 
it  ?  A  Second  cousin  is — well,  a  second  cousin.  I  ain  not 
sure  that  her  consent  or  ap[)robation  signifies." 

He  smiles  at  the  easy  air  and  tone  of  utter  indifference. 


1 


.T» 


SO   SWEET. 


z  to  night: 
and  a  new 
Inside,  the 
lingers  on 
)\v,  and  on 
ids  clasped, 
.  For  the 
d  say  very 
If-honr,  but 
And  Lewis 
)i  hope  he 
inly  sought, 
n  tlie  news 
re  honestly 
niself.  He 
ide,  as  they 
lids  by  Syd- 
darkness — 
their  leash, 
c  after-life. 
las  become 
ifid  woman 
it  emotions 
LMit,  the  si- 
;,  his  ey. 

ually  to  his 
Macgregor 

2,  her  eyes 
iamily,  and 

latter,  does 
I  am  not 

rence. 


''WHAT  SOME  HAVE  FOUND  SO  SWEET.'*         327 

"  r>ut  I  am  afraid  it  does,  my  little  princess.  You  are  mak- 
ing a  very  shocking  mesalliance,  stoojjing  very  low  in,stooi)inir 
to  me.      Do  you  not  know  that  ?"  ** 

"  J  did  not  before.  You  should  know  best,  however  I  bow 
to  your  superior  wisdom,  Mr.  Nolan." 

"  Ah  !  it  is  no  laughing  matter.  Mrs.  Macgregor's  house  is 
lyour  home  ;  she  c.?\\  make  it  very  unpleasant  for  you,  Sydney  " 
[  Sydney  know.,  uiat ;  Mrs.  Macgregor  has  made  it  exces- 
^  sively  unpleasant  for  her  already. 

"  And  you  have  no  other  home.     Do  you  know,  my  princess 
^hat,  rich  as  you  are,  you  are  not  as  well  off  as  other  girls  after 

..   •',/  f "  .*°-"'g'^V'  s'le  answers,  softly,  and  with  a  glance  that 
thrills  his  inmost  heart. 

^^  "If  1  only  had  a  home,"  he  says,  drawing  a  tense  breath  • 
a  home  no  matter  how  inferior  to  what  you  have  been  used 
to  )her  you,  I  would  take  you  from  them  at  once.     But  I  have 
not ;  1  can  otTer  you  nolliing." 

"  Kxcei)t  yourself.  Oh  !  J.ewis,  I  ask  nothing  in  all  the  world 
DesKle. 

They  clasp  hands,  and  again  there  is  silence  ;  one  of  those 
long  delicious  blanks  rliat  are  better  than  words.  But  the 
cloud  still  lingers  on  the  young  man's  brow ;  her  face  is 
radiant. 

"  1  suppose  you  know,  Sydney,  that  you  will  be  set  down  as 
the  prey  of  a  fortune-hunter.  And  very  naturally,  too.  When 
a  pauper  aspires  to  a  princess  what  other  motives  can  actuate 
the  pauper  than  mercenary  ones  ?  " 

"  Lewis,"  says  Sydney,  and  the  way  in  which  she  utters  her 
lovers  name  for  the  hrst  time,  is  a  caress  in  itself,  "don't  be 
disagreeable,  please.  What  does  it  matter  to  you  or  to  me 
what  all  the  world  says  ?  You  are  the  only  one  who  wiU  have 
the  impertinence  to  repeat  such  a  thing  in  my  presence." 

He  laughs,  then  sighs. 

h.M-'i:l'"  ""n  '"  '^l'':  "^that.  Mrs.  Macgregor  will  consider  it 
hci  duty  and  her  privilege  to  put  things  b^-fore  you  very  plainly 
--oh    very  plainly  indeed.     She  will  tell   you-what  is  true-- 

on/.o'll.  "'■'';  ^r  '"  ^'-^^y^^'^y-  'l^hat  while  you  were 
bo  to  the  purple,  I  was  born  a  newsboy  ;  that  while  3  on 
walked  in  silk  attire,  and  siller  had  to  snnre    I  cu^.-n  off--  -n 

'Z'T^'^"^^^  >-"  -igned'q;;een,iii3;,'and ';;:;;;; 

bountv  of  f^^I^'onable  boarding-school,  1  was  educated  by  the 
bounty  of  her  brother;  that  while  you  are  an  heiress,  and  of 


I 


328 


'nVir.lT  so  Ml-    HAVE  FOUND  SO  SWEET:' 


l» 


:i; 


the  salt  of  the  earth,  I  am  anout-at-elbows  Bohemian,  fighting 
my  way  iiuli  by  incli,  obscure,  unknown  to  fame,  witii  a  mother 
and  sister  who  sew  tor  a  hveh'hood.  And  all  Madison  Avenue 
will  b'.'  scandalized,  and  the  best  metropolitan  society  will  cry 
out  lliat  one  of  then-  Order  has  jtut  them  to  shame.  Oh  !  little 
princess,  think  of  it  in  time.  It  is  not  yet  too  late  to  draw 
back,  to  repent  of  your  sin  against  society." 

"That  is  a  very  eloquent  ontbust,  Mr.  Nolan,"  replies  Miss 
Owenson,  coolly;  "but,  as  a  rule,  eloijuent  outbursts  are 
thrown  away  npon  me.  If  you  have  bec.-n  surprised  into  tell- 
ing me  you — you  care  for  me  a  little,  and  want  to  get  out  of  it, 
l)lease  put  it  in  plain  words.  If  you  tell  me  to  ive  you  up.  I 
will  do  It  ;  if  not,  tlie  rest  of  the  world,  though  it  cried  out  to 
me  with  one  voice,  is  as  nothing." 

"  My  own  !  how  can  I  ever  i)rove  my  gratitude  for  this?" 

*'  15y  never  saying  such  hateful  things  more.  All  New  York 
can  neither  make  nor  mar  my  happiness,  but  you  can  with  a 
word.  All  the  wealth  of  the  world,  if  I  possessed  it,  would  not 
weigh  a  feather-weiglit  against  my — love." 

She  si)eaks  that  last  word  in  a  shy  whisper,  as  one  not  yet 
used  to  its  sound.  For  two-and  twenty  years  she  has  gone  on 
her  way,  her  heart  her  own,  to  lay  it  down  humbly  here.  She  is 
sweetness,  and  nt)bleness,  antl  generosity  itself,  but  even  yet  tiiis 
ditlicult  Mr.  Nolan  is  not  at  rest,  for  he  knows  she  speaks  of 
wealth  and  position  with  the  grand  disdain  of  one  who  has  never 
known  the  lack  of  either. 

And  now  Mamma  Nolan  puts  in  her  best  black  Sunday  cap, 
and  calmly  announces  that  the  pancakes  are  ready,  and  will 
they  please  come  down  to  tea,  and  at  this  descent  from  sub- 
limated sentiment  to  tlap-jacks,  all  laugh. 

"Dear  me,"  says  Mrs.  Nolan,  -what  are  you  laughing  at  and 
what  are  you  all  doing  in  the  dark  ?  Lewis,  1  s^hould  think  you 
might  have  lit  the  lamii.  It  can't  be  j)leasant  for  Miss  Owen- 
son  to  sit  in  darkness  like  an  owl." 

"  1  don't  mind  being  an  owl  tor  a  little  while,  Mrs.  Nolan," 
responds  Sydney,  demurely.  "  Mr.  Nolan  and  I  have  been  dis- 
cussing society  and  its  creeds,  and  Ibrgot  that  it  was  lamplight 
time," 

"AVell,  come  down  to  supper,"  says  Mamma  Nolan,  inno- 
cently.  "  L-ewis,  be  very  careful  in  carrviniz  Lucy  on  the  stairji." 

For  it  is  one  of  Lucy's  best  days,  and  she  is  to  go  down- 
stairs. The  warning  is  not  neciU'd,  no  woman  couKl  be  more 
tender  of  touch  than  is  Lewis  with  his  frail  sister.     He  carries 


7'." 

an,  fighting 
!i  a  motlu.T 
on  Anciuic 
cty  will  cry 
Oil !  little 
itc  to  draw 

cplies  Miss 
tbiirsts  arc 
(1  into  tell- 
ot  out  of  it, 
c  you  up.  I 
:ricd  out  to 

r  this?" 
New  York 
can  with  a 

,  would  not 

ne  not  yet 
as  gone  on 
ire.  She  is 
/en  yet  this 

2  speaks  of 

3  has  never 

lunday  cap, 
y,  and  will 
;  from  sub- 

;hing  at  and 
:1  tiiink  you 
Vliss  Oweii- 

rs.  Nolan," 
'e  been  dis- 
s  lamplight 

Folan,  inno- 
thc  srair^i." 
)  ii,o  dowu- 
Ki  be  more 
He  carries 


**lVnAT  SOME  HAVE  FOUND  SO  SWEET."        329 

her  down  to  the  cozy  parlor,  where  fire  and  lamp  make  warmest 
light,  and  where  china  tea  cup j  glisten,  and  an  old  silver  tea- 
pot, the  one  relic  of  afiluent  days,  sparkles,  and  where  there  are 
cakes,  and  coffee,  and  chickens,  and  ruby  jellies  and  snowy 
bread,  cold  ham  and  hot  pancakes,  all  tempting  and  nice.  It 
is  a  delightful  meal,  although  Sydney  finds  to  her  surprise  that 
Jie  has  no  appetite,  and  her  effort  in  the  eating  way  is  only  an 
effort  to  please  her  hostess.  Lewis  is  rather  silent,  but  he  looks 
wonderfully  happy,  even  his  mother  notices,  and  her  artless 
rcniarks  on  the  subject  make  M-  •  Owenson  blush.  There  is 
a  ring  in  one  of  tiiese  i)ancakes,  Mrs.  IVolan  gravely  informs 
lier  company,  whoever  gets  ..  is  to  be  married  before  the  year 
ends  ;  and  this  blissful  symbol,  the  projjitious  l-'ates  will,  shall 
fall  to  Miss  Owenson.  Thereupon  everybody  laughs,  and  the 
bright  hue  of  the  young  lady's  cheek  grows  brighter,  and  alto- 
gether it  is  a  feast  to  be  remembered,  a  symposium  of  the  gods. 
All  the  while  not  a  word  is  dropped  that  can  enlighten  the  mind 
of  mamma.  After  tea  there  is  music,  and  Lewis  is  the  musi- 
cian, all  his  heart  in  the  songs  he  sings,  in  the  rich  melody  his 
fingers  awake.  Sydney  sits  in  a  trance,  and  listens,  and  knows 
that  if  the  deep  happiness  she  feels  were  to  end  with  this  night, 
it  might  still  comj)ensate  for  a  lifetime  of  sorrow.  Presently  it 
is  nine,  and  she  starts  up,  and  announces  that  it  is  time  to  go. 
She  kisses  Lucy  and  Lucy's  mother,  with  an  ardor  only  one  of 
them  understands ;  and  so,  with  Lewis  following,  Mits  away  and 
disappears. 

It  is  a  bright  winter  night,  cold  and  clear,  a  night  that  photo- 
graphs itself  on  the  memory  of  both.  The  streets  are  lull  of 
people,  but  these  two  are  in  solitude— they  drift  on  slowly,  silent 
again,  and  neuher  knowing  they  are  silent.  But,  presently,  the 
gentleman  breaks  the  spell. 

"  Sydney,"  he  says,  and  the  troubled  look  that  worries  Syd- 
ney  is  back  in  his  eyes,  "after  all,  this  is  a  leap  in  the  dark  for 
you.     What  do  you  know  of  me  in  reality  ?  " 

"  *  A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, 
A  fentlier  of  the  hhte, 
A  douljlet  of  tiie  Lincoln  green, 
No  more  of  me  you  knew 

My  love, 
No  more  of  me  you  knew  ! '  " 

laughingly  says  Sydney,  out  of  her  radiantlv  happy  heart. 
But  Nolan  will  not  laugh,  he  looks  down  at  her  with  those 


ii 


^^H'  .!' 

4i 

1 

T! 

^^^^^^B 

^^^^^^H'^l' 

i  1 

^^^^^^^IBtt 

ii 

330        "HV/.iT  SOME   HAVE  FOUND  SO  SIVEET» 

gray,  dark  i:)cs  of  liis,  Miss  0\v(?ns()n  thinks  the  most  beautiful 
in  tlir  world,  ami  ixilcialcs  iiis  rciniiik. 

"  You  know  nothing  of  nic  or  niy  life.  I  may  be  the  greatest 
villain  on  earth  for  all  that  von  can  tell." 

"  I'.xcusc  nie,  Mr.  Nolan,  that  is  yonr  little  mistake.  Partly 
fron.  Jaicy,  partly  from  your  doting  mamma,  partly  from  Mrs. 
Ciahani,  partly  fioni  Uncle  drif — all  your  devoted  slaves-  I 
have  heard  the  whole  bi«jgraphy  of  l^ewis  Nolan  since  he  was 
an  interesting  cherub  in  hjng  robes,  '  and  the  best  child,'  as 
Manuna  Nolan  emphatically  tells  me,  '  that  ever  lay  in  a  cradle. 
Conid  the  most  exacting  inciuirer  ask  more?" 

Mr.  Nolan  sees  fit  to  laugh  at  this,  but  to  Sydney's  disgust 
grows  grave  again  directly. 

"  1  may  have  secrets  in  my  life  that  even  these  good  friends 
do  not  know.  Which  of  us  arc  known  tooiu'  nearest  and  dear- 
est as  we  are.  Sydney,  there  is  something  that  1  ought  to  tell 
you,  that  you  have  a  right  to  know,  and — that  may  part  us." 

"No,  no!"  Sydney  cries  out,  holding  his  arm  tighter;  "I 
do  not  believe  it.  Oh!  J.ewis,  you  have  not — you  have 
not " 

"A  hidden  wife?"  supplements  Lewis  and  laughs  again. 
"  My  dear  child,  no.  No  won)an  on  earth  has  the  faintest 
clain)  upon  me  excepting  yourself." 

She  draws  a  long  breath  of  relief.  For  a  moment  the  absurd 
notion  that  he  has  put  into  words  has  actually  Hashed  across  her 
brain. 

"  Nothing  else  can  matter  then  ;  if  you  love  me  and  no  one 
else  will  sutler.  For  I  could  not  take  even  you,  Lewis,  from 
OJie  who  had  the  slightest  prior  claim." 

*'  No  one  has  a  prior  claim,  now.  Once — years  ago — I 
cared  for,  or  fancied  1  cared  for,  which  amounts  to  the  same 
thing,  a  girl  who  threw  me  over.  Think  of  that,  Miss  Owenson  ! 
You  honor  with  your  preference  a  jilted  man  !  " 

"  I  owe  her  ten  thousand  thanks  that  she  did  jilt  you.  Tut 
what  atrocious  taste  she  must  have  had  !  Is  that  your  awful 
secret,  Lewis  ?  " 

"  No,  Sydney  ;  I  wish  to  heaven  it  were.  In  my  past  life 
I " 

"Lewis,  stop!"  she  cries  out  again,  in  affright.  "I  don't 
want  to  know.  I  would  rather  nut  know.  I  zvouU  know  ! 
No  matter  what  it  is — even  if  'i  crime — it  !i.is  hsiep.  r-.'".)t".Ui'd  nf 
and  atoned  for,  I  am  sure.  With  your  past  life  I  have  nothing 
to  do.     1  take  you  as  you  are,  asking  no  ciuestions.     Only  be 


^'Wir.lT  HOME  HAVE  FOUND  SO  SWEET.''        33 1 

faithful   and    true  to   ino,  loving   nic    with   your  whole    heart 
Always,  for  with  less  I  will  not  he  content,  and  I  ask  no  more." 

"No  more,"  he  repeats,  strong  repressed  passion  in  his  tone, 
fire  Ml  his  eye.     "  .Syiiney  !  you  mean  that  ?" 

♦•  1  mean  that.     I  ask  no  more." 

"And  whatever  comes— if  in  the  future  wliat  I  would  tell  you 
now  comes  to  your  ears,  you  will  hoKl  me  blameless  i* " 

"  I  hold  you  blameless,  so  that  you  are  still  all  mine." 

"Thank  Heaven  !" 

Did  he  say  it,  or  did  she  only  fancy  it  ?  He  drew  a  deep 
breath  of  great  relief,  and  looked  at  the  fair  and  noble  face  with 
eyes  of  almost  adoration. 

"  Sydney,  you  are  an  angel.  No,  you  are  what  is  infinitely 
better  for  me — a  perfect  woman." 

"  Oh  !  no,  no,"  she  said,  earnestly—"  a  very  faulty  and  erring 
woman,  wantmg  a  clear  head  and  a  loving  heart  to  guide  her  ; 
wantmg  some  one  braver  and  wiser  than  herself  to  heli)  her 
through  life."  ' 

"  And  you  think  me  that  better  and  wiser  miide?  Mv  Door 
little  Sydney ! "  b  /  i 

'Fhere  was  an  unutterable  bitterness,  unutterable  remorse  and 
pain  in  his  voice.  Was  he  doing  wrong  in  taking  this  trusting 
gul  at  her  word,  in  all  the  innocence  of 'ignorance,  and  making 
her  his  own,  the  secret  of  his  life  untold  ? 

^^  "  I,  too,  have  my  confession  to  make,"  Sydney  says,  shyly. 
"  J,  too,  was  once  before  engaged.     Did  you  know  it,  Lewis  ?" 

"  No,"  he  answers,  "  1  did  not  know  it." 

And  the  knowledge  now  gives  hiu)  curious  sort  of  jealous 
pain. 

"  Yes,  and  was  very  nearly  married,  but  he  died,  poor  fellow  • 
was  killed  in  fact.  I  did  not  care  for  him  in— in  this  «  xy.  \Vc 
had  grown  up  f.-cu.  ,  and  I  was  fond  of  him  as  a  si.-,ter.  My 
father  desire  ,  me  to  be  his  wife;  1  was  only  seventeen,  and 
knew  no  other  will  than  my  dear  father's,     liut  he  died. 

Sydney's  voice  trembles  even  now,  as  she  recalls  that  dread- 
ful tune. 

_  "  Do  not  say  any  more,"  Nolan  says,  tenderly.  "  I  can  see 
It  pams  you  to  recall  it.  Let  the  dead  past  be  buried,  and  from 
this  night,  I  swear  my  whole  life  my  every  thought  shall  be 
open  to  you.  If  perfect  love,  if  perfect  fidelity,  all  I  have  to 
Oil  -r,  can  io  any  way  repay  the  saeiiuce  you  make  for  nie,  then 
they  are  yours." 

"  I  wish  for  no  more,"  she  says,  and  gives  him  both  her  hands. 


»  .     !  *- 


M 


332     "wiLrr  SOME  HAVE  found  so  sweet:' 

They  are  at  Mrs.  Macgrcgor's  door  ;  and,  as  she  s])ea1<s  the 
words,  and  he  clasps  in  his  those  two  extended  hands,  that  door 
suddenly  opens,  a  blaze  of  light  falls  u|)on  them,  and  Mrs.  Mac- 
gregor,  awful  as  Macbeth,  majestic  and  stern,  in  full  evening 
dress,  .stands  before  them. 

Tableau  ! 

Mr.  Nolan  takes  off  his  hat,  Sydney  blushes  vividly,  Mrs  Mac 
<irregor  stands  and  glares  petrified,  middle-aged  gorgon. 

"  (locxl- evening,  Mrs.  Macgregor,"  says  Mr.  Nolan,  politely, 
and  by  no  means  crushed. 

His  voice  breaks  the  chilling  spell. 

"Will  you  not  come  in,  Lewis?"  says  MissOwenson,  bravely. 
"  No  ?  Well,  then,  good-night.  Tell  Lucy  I  shall  see  her  to- 
morrow." 

"dood-night,"  he  says,  biting  his  lip  to  repress  a  smile,  and 
runs  down  the  stei)s. 

She  lingers  a  moment  to  watch  him,  and  even  Mrs.  Mac- 
gregor cannot  but  read  what  is  written  so  radiantly  in  Sydney's 
lovely  eyes. 

"Will  you  come  into  the  drawing-room,  Miss  Ovvenson?" 
she  says,  in  a  sharp  metallic  voice.  "  1  would  like  to  speak  to 
you  before  you  retire." 

"  Not  to-night,  Aunt  Helen,"  Miss  Owenson  replies,  smiling 
gayly,  at  the  same  time  turning  to  go  up-stairs. 

"  It  is  half-past  ten,"  says  Aunt  Helen,  ui  an  acrid  tone,  and 
a  glance  of  the  darkest  displeasure. 

"Is  it  ?  "  retorts  Sydney,  carelessly.  "  All  the  more  reason  I 
should  go  to  my  room  at  once.     Good-night,  Aunt  Helen." 

She  runs  up  lightly,  that  smile  still  on  her  li[)S.  There  will  be 
a  scene  to-morrow,  and  the  truth  must  come  out.  The  scene 
will  be  unjileasant,  and  Sydney  wants  nothing  unpleasant  to 
mar  the  memory  of  this  perfect  night.  She  does  what  all  young 
women  in  love  do,  in  books  and  out  of  them,  sits  at  the  window 
and  contemplates  the  moon. 

Sunday  was  dreary,  yesterday  was  dull,  to-day  had  been 
weary — to-night  all  that  earUi  held  of  ecstasy  was  hers,  because 
a  sallow  young  man  with  gray  eyes  and  not  a  rap  in  his  pocket 
tells  her  he  is  in  love  with  her.  She  looks  up  at  her  "  Sintram" 
— the  moonlighi:  is  full  on  the  dark,  sad,  remorseful  face. 

"  I  have  seen  Lewis  to  niglit  with  just  that  look,"  she  thinks, 
witli  a  sort  of  tender  trouble.  "What  can  his  secret  be  ?  But  it 
is  nothing  that  concerns  me — he  has  told  me  that ;  and  I  shaL 
make  his  life  so  happy  that  he  will  cease  to    resemble   poor, 


"/  SHALL  HAVE  HAD  MY  DAY.''' 


333 


tempted,  melancholy  Sintram.  I  never  rejoiced  in  my  wealth 
before,  but  I  do  now  for  his  sake.  And  to  think— to  think  he 
would  have  gone  away  without  telling  me  if  I  had  not  chanced 
to  overhear. 

"  My  life  has  found 
What  some  liave  found  so  sweet ; 
Then  let  come  what  come  may, 
No  matter  ifl  go  mad, 
I  shall  have  had  my  day. " 


s  a  smile,  and 


CHAPTER  X. 


"  I  SHALL  HAVE  HAD  MY  DAY." 

YDNEY  goes  down  to  breakfast  next  morning  with  a 
i  face  from  which  even  the  prosi)ect  of  what  is  to  come 
cannot  dun  the  sunshine.  Mrs.  and  Miss  Macgregor 
are  already  seated,  Katherine  immersed  in  the  morning 
paper,  and  Mrs.  Macgregor  majestic  behind  the  coffee-pot,  her 
Konian  nose  higher  in  the  air,  and  more  awfully  Roman  than 
bydney  ever  remembers  to  have  seen  it.  Jiut  Miss  Owenson 
IS  the  daughter  of  a  fighting  sailor,  and  not  deficient  in  pluck, 
bhe  encounters  the  stony  stare  of  the  mistress  of  the  mansion 
with  a  frankly  pleasant  smile,  although  her  heart  beats  a  trille 
taster  than  is  its  wont. 

"Coffee  or  tea?"  says  Mrs.  Macgregor  to  her  young  rela- 
tive,_  as  wlio  should  say,  "  Pistols  or  poison— take  your  choice  !  " 

"  1  ea,  please.     Any  news  this  morning,  Katie  ?  " 

"  Nothing  especial,"  answers  Katie,  rather  coldly,  and  Syd- 
ney receives  her  tea-cup  and  stirs  her  tea. 

"Sydney!"  begins  Mrs.  Macgregor,  in  a  voice  that  makes 
every  nerve  m  Sydney's  body  wince,  "  it  is  my  duty,  unpleasant 
tlunigh  It  may  be,  to  speak  seriously  to  you  this  morning. 
Your  parents  are  dead,  1  am  your  nearest  living  relative,  and 
you  are  a  member  of  my  family.  All  these  considerations  com- 
pel me  to  tell  you  that  I  was  s!KK:ked— yes,  Sydnev,  honestly 
sliocked— by  what  I  saw  last  night.  ^       ^ '  / 

"  Did  you  see  anything  very  awful.  Aunt  Helen  ?"  intuiired 
Miss  Owenson,  taking  some  dry  toast. 


334 


««/  SHALL   ITAVR   HAD  MY  DAY.'" 


%.        r 


.. ,,.,  i , 

i 

1 

"  I  saw  what  I  did  not  expect  to  see- 
daiightcr  lowering  herself- 


-Reginald  Owenson's 


"  Lowering 


I  do   not   think   I    quite  understand, 


herself? 
Mrs.  Macgregor." 

Sydney's  voice  is  quite  calm,  her  blue  eyes  look  steadily 
across  the  table,  but  she  is  growing  very  pale. 

•'  I  repeat  it — lowering  herself,"  says  Mrs.  Macgregor.  "  Is 
it  necessary  for  me  to  say  that  Lewis  Nolan  is  no  fit  compa- 
nion for  Captain  Owenson's  daughter?" 

"  Your  daughter  first  introduced  me  to  Mr.  Nolan.  I  take 
it  for  granted  she  would  not  introduce  me  to  any  one  unfit  to 
be  my  companion,  and  I  met  him  next  at  the  house  of  one  of 
your  most  intimate  friends.  He  is  a  gentleman,  is  he  not.  Aunt 
Helen  ;  and,  as  such,  a  fitting  companion  for  any  lady  in  the 
land  ?  "  I 

"  A  gentleman  !  He  is  a  pauper,  a  dependant  on  my 
brother's  bounty  ;  a  young  man  very  well  in  his  way  no  doubt,* 
but  low  — low  both  in  bringing  up  and  connections ;  at  no  time 
the  proper  associate  of  a  yotmg  lady  in  your  position,  and 
notoriously  unfit  to  be  her  solitary  escort  home  at  ten  o'clock 
at  night !  "  j 

Miss  Owenson  has  thrown  back  her  head,  her  face  is  pale, 
her  eyes  are  shining  as  only  blue  eyes  shine  in  intense,  re- 
pressed anger.  \ 

"1  have  long  intended,"  Mrs.  Macgregor's  metallic  voice  goes 
on,  "to  sjjcak  to  yon  of  the  impropriety  of  your  frecpient  visits 
to  this  young  man's  house;  but,  knowing  you  were  very  charitable 
to  the  poor,  I  forced  myself  to  believe  your  visits  there  were  as 
your  ordinary  visits  to  the  homes  of  your  i)ensioners.  But  last 
night  1  heard  you — even  now  I  can  scarcely  credit  my  ears — I 
heard  you  call  that  young  man  Lewis,  saw  you  stand  with  both 
hands  clasjied  in  his  !  I  know  that  iVlis.  (iraham,  in  her  foolish 
way,  has  taken  this  young  man  up  ;  that  her  ecjually  foolish  hus- 
band has  taken  him  into  partnership.  All  the  same,  he  is  none 
the  less  your  inferior,  and  beneath  your  notice ;  and  when  you 
permit  him  the  freedom  I  saw  with  my  own  eyes  last  night, 
you — it  is  a  strong  word,  but  I  must  use  it — you  degrade  your- 
self, Sydney." 

"  Mother  I  "  cries  Katherine.  throwing  down  her  paper. 

Miss  Owenson  rises  to  her  feet,  and  stands  tall,  and  stately, 
and  pale  as  death. 

"  It  is  a  word  that  has  never  been  used  to  me  befi)re  ;  it  is 
one  that  shall  never  be  used  to   me  airain   in   this  house.     All 


"/  SHALL   HAVE  HAD  MY  DAV." 


uite  understand, 
;s  look  steadily 


335 


Madison  Avenue,  all  the  friends  you  have,  Mrs.  Macgregor, 
might  have  been  standing  as  you  were  last  night,  lookin^^  on[ 
and  I  would  have  held  Lewis  Nolan's  hand  all  the  closer?  and 
stood  by  his  side,  prouder  of  my  right  to  stand  there  than  of  any 
one  else  on  earth.  For  I  have  the  right,"  Sydney  says,  a  tiush 
of  exultant  joy,  tnumph,  and  love  lighting  her  face,  "it  is  my 
great  happiness  this  morning  to  tell  you,  the  right  to  stand  by 
his  side  my  whole  life  long ! " 

"  Sydney !  "  Mrs.  Macgregor  exclaims.  She  rises  also,  blanched 
with  horror.     "You  do  not  mean— you  cannot  mean " 

"  That  I  am  to  be  Lewis  Nolan's  wife  ?  Yes,  Aunt  Helen, 
whenever  he  sees  fit  to  claim  me." 

Aunt  Helen  drops  back  into  her  seat  with  a  thud.  Katherine 
sits  and  gazes  at  Sydney  with  glittering  cold  black  eyes. 

"lam  sorry  if  I  in  anyway  cause  you  annoyance,  Aunt 
Helen, '  Sydney  goes  on  in  a  gentler  tone.  She  is  so  infinitely 
hapi)y  that  she  can  afford  charity  to  others.  "  You  are  my  near- 
esf  relative,  as  you  say,  and  1  am  at  present  under  your  care.  It 
will  afford  me  pleasure  to  please  you  in  any  way  in  my  power, 
to  yield  to  you  m  all  proper  matters,  but  here  you  must  not  inter- 
tere.  J  am  Mr.  Nolan's  plighted  wife  ;  you  are  free  to  announce 
It  to  every  ac(iuaintance  you  have,  and  as  soon  as  you  please. 
Any  atfront  offered  to  him  I  shall  resent,  as  I  would  never  think 
of  resenting  an  atfront  offered  to  myself." 

^  And  then  Miss  Ovvenson,  still  stately  and  uplifted,  bows  her 
;.i<Md  and  goes.  Mrs.  Macgregor  sits  up  paralyzed;  Miss 
.i.'uicgregor  holds  her  ZTtr^rA/  ui^  before  her  face  and  stares  at  it, 
ana  never  sees  a  word. 

"  J-ewis  Nolan  ! "  the  mother  faintly  gasps,  at  last.  ''  Svdney 
Owenson  to  marry  Lewis  Nolan  !  Katherine,  are  you  deaf,  that 
you  sit  there  and  read  ?     Z>/V/  you  hear  what  she  said  ?" 

"1  heard,  mother,"  Katherine  answers,  icily.  "I  am  not 
surprised.  She  is  worthy  of  him— I  can  praise  Sydney  no  more 
highly  than  that. "  i  j        j 

"  Katherine  I " 

"And,  mother,  as  Miss  Owenson  is  her  own  mistress,  and 

you  have  not  a  shadow  of  right  over  her,  and  as  she  pays  vou 

rebly  for  her  board,  and  is  rather  a  lucrative  item  in  our  house- 

liokl,  1  would  strongly  advise  you  to  be  civil.     An  heiress  need 

never  want  triend.-;  •  doors  will  be  c 


house  too  hot  to  hold  her.     SI 
out  of  hand,  and  have  a  home  of  her 


)on  to  her  if  yuu  make  your 
e  may  even  marry    Mr.    Nolan 


With 


which   Katherine  leaves  th 


own.    /  would  in  her  place 


t 


i 


e  room,   and  her  mother 


IMS 


336 


*•  /  S//ALL   IIA  VE  HAD  Mi'  DA  F." 


'ii 


H    I 


If.' 
I   if 


I        ! 


I 


!  ! 


is  alone,  to  chew  the  cxu\  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancies.  Very  bit- 
ter she  finds  them.  To  refuse  Dick,  to  refuse  Van  Ciiyler — • 
all  for  this  1-ewis  Nolan.  What  docs  she  see  in  him?  Ann! 
Helen  thinks,  heli)lessly.  If  he  were  a  very  handsome  man  she 
could  understand  a  romantic  girl's  fcmcy  and  folly  ;  but  he  is 
not — he  is  dark  and  sallow,  and  thin,  with  prominent  features, 
and  nothing  attractive  about  him  except  a  voice  for  singing, 
a  gift  that  rather  detracts  from  a  man's  manliness,  in  Mrs.  Mac- 
gregor's  eyes.  He  may  be  clever  in  his  way,  but  if  Sydney 
wanted  cleverness,  why  did  she  not  take  Ernest  Van  Cuyler,  a 
gentleman  and  a  scholar,  and  a  man  who  wrote  books,  surrounded, 
too,  by  the  aroma  of  conquest  and  fame.  Why  had  she  fallen 
in  love  with  this  young  man,  Nolan  ?  What  does  she  see  in 
him  ?  The  case  is  hopeless,  the  conundrum  unsolvable.  In  a 
stunned  way  she  rises  and  gives  it  up  at  last. 

Katharine  runs  up  to  Sydney's  room  and  raps  at  the  door. 

"Let  me  in,  Sydney,  please,"  she  says ;  "it  is  only  1." 

Sydney  obeys.  She  has  been  crying,  Kadierine  can  see — tin. 
usual  ending  of  feminine  heroics ;  and  Katie  takes  her  in  her 
arms  impulsively  and  kisses  her. 

"  Sydney,  you  are  the  best  and  pluckiest  girl  in  the  world, 
and  1  wish  you  joy.     1  think  I  half  expected  this  from  the  first." 

Sydney  leans  her  arm  on  the  mantel  and  her  face  on  her  arm, 
tears  welling  up  in  her  eyes  again. 

"Don't  mind  mamma,"  goes  on  Katberine.  "Your  conduct 
is  sheer  madness  in  her  eyes,  nothing  less.  And  who  can  won- 
der? Refusing  Ernest  Van  Cuyler  last  week,  and  accepting 
Eewis  Nolan  this  I  How  pleased  Mrs.  Graham  will  be  ;  she  set 
her  heart  on  this  long  ago,  and  was  nearly  in  despair  when  she 
heard  of  his  departure.  Of  course  the  Sacramento  exile  is  at  an 
end  now,"  says  Katie,  with  a  touch  of  her  old  satirical  smile. 

"I  hope  so.  1  don't  know,"  Sydney  answers,  in  a  stitied 
voice. 

There  is  silence,  and  Katherine  stands  and  looks  at  her,  half 
curiously,  half  admiringly. 

"And  .so  my  beautiful  Cousin  Sydney,  captor  so  long,  is  cap 
tive  at  last !     Shall  you  be  manied  after  Lent,  Sydney  ?  " 

"  1  don't  know." 

"  /would  !  "  says  Katherine,  energetically.  Why  should  you 
wait  ?  you  will  be  ever  so  much  happier  in  a  home  of  your  own, 
and  where  is  the  object  in  waiting  half-a-dozen  years  while  he 
struggles  ui)ward.  One  of  you  luis  money,  and  I  know  in  your, 
primitive  creed  it  doesn't  matter  which,  though  it  would  tomosti 


iii.^.i! 


««/  SHALL  HAVE  HAD  MY  DA\  " 


337 


people.  lUit  then  most  people  would  not  throw  themselves 
tway — don't  be  angry,  Syd — it  is  throwing  yourself  away  in  one 
sense." 

"  ]}e  kind  enough  not  to  say  so,  Katie.  If  I  were  told  a 
kingdom  and  a  crown  were  awaiting  me,  they  could  not  give  me 
a  tithe  of  the  happiness  the  knowledge  that  he  loves  me  does." 

"  It  must  be  nice  to  be  unworldly  and  fresh-hearted  like 
that,"  says  Katie,  with  a  half  sigii ;  "but  then  it  is  a  luxury  you 
can  afford.  In  your  place,  even  I  nn'ght  fall  in  love  with  and 
marry  a  i)oor  man." 

Ill  news  travels  ai)ace — perhaps  that  was  how  Mrs.  Macgregor 
accounted  for  the  rapidity  with  which  the  stunning  fact  of  Miss 
Owenson's  engagement  extraordinaiy  transpired.  To  Lewis 
Nolan  !  Who  was  this  I>ewis  Nolan  ?  cried  out  the  uninitiated ; 
and  the  answer  came  crushingly  : 

"  A  young  fellow  without  a  penny  ;  his  mother  an  Irishwoman 
who  sews  for  a  living — son  educated  for  the  bar  through  the  ch^^r- 
ity  of  Mr.  Ciriffith  Glenn  und  John  Crraham,  Ksquire — man  who 
plays  the  organ  in  a  church  for  a  salary,  and  sings  at  evening 
parties." 

Can  it  be  wondered  at,  that  the  best  society  of  this  democratic 
city  lield  up  its  hands  aghast,  shocked,  outraged,  indignant? 
One  of  the  richest  heiresses  in  New  York,  the  last  of  a  line  old 
English  family,  a  young  lady  who  had  refused  Ernest  Vander- 
velde  Van  Cuyler  only  a  few  weeks  ago  !  Tiiere  nnist  be  some- 
thing intrinsically  wrong,  nientally  or  mokaliy,  with  this  hand- 
some and  high-spirited  Miss  Owenson — insanity  latent  probably 
in  the  family. 

Of  course  very  little  of  all  this  came  to  Miss  Owenson's  ears, 
but  of  course  also,  she  could  liardly  fail  to  read  the  wonder,  the 
pity,  the  curiosity  in  the  faces  she- met  ;  and,  wlmt  was  nnich 
worse.  Aunt  Helen,  afraid  of  oi)en  warfare,  had  frozen  into 
strong  rigidity.  Not  Lot's  wife  had  ever  been  stiffer,  harder, 
colder,  tlum  was  disi)leased  Aunt  Helen  Macgregor.  She  had 
always  disliked  tliis  fortune-hunter,  this  adventurer,  this  Lohe- 
mi:in  young  Nolan.  As  a  bo}',  the  money  brother  v^Jrif  should 
have  si)ent  on  Dick  had  been  wasted  on  this  pauper  lad.  As  a 
boy,  at  the  same  school,  this  audacious  mendicant  had  carried 
oh  jjrize  after  ])rize  over  Dick's  devoted  head.  And  now  this 
hna!  and  never  to-be-forgivcn  sin  of  winning  Sydncv  Owenson  bv 
his  artifices,  and  for  her  tbrtune  only,  had  been  committed.  He 
had  been  taken — Dick  left.  No  wonder  Mrs.  Mat'gregor's 
thoughts  were  gull  and  biMerness  ;  no  wonder  that  severe  Ro- 


33^ 


"/  SHALL   HAVE  HAD  MY  DAY."* 


J   \ 


■i>  '<■ 


¥   i 


man  profile  grew  awful  in  Miss  Owenson's  sight;  ;  no  wonder 
every  word  that  fell  from  her  \\[)s  were  as  so  many  icicles. 

Mrs.  Orahani,  on  the  contrary,  was  transported,  and  embraced 
Sydney  over  and  again  in  an  ecstasy  of  gusliing,match-making  joy. 

"  You  were  made  for  each  other,  my  darling  !  I  saw  that 
from  the  first.  1  should  never  have  forgiven  you,  Sydney,  if 
you  had  let  him  go." 

Mrs.  (Iraham  was  Sydney's  one  friend.  At  her  house  she  and 
Lewis  sometimes  met,  but  not  often,  for  Mr.  Nolan  was,  as 
usual,  very  much  occupied,  and  seemed  to  have  received  a  new 
impetus  to  work.  He  had  even  for  a  brief  time  no  intention  of 
givii^g  up  his  California  project — he  could  attain  the  desired  end 
so  much  more  (juickly  there.  Sydn  ,'y  had  looked  reproaclifuUy 
and  imploring,  and  Mrs.  (jraham  had  scolded  him  roundly  fot 
such  "  a  tempting  of  Providence";  iaicy  and  his  mother  had 
pleaded,  and  fuially,  and  not  without  some  reluctance,  it  was 
abandoned.  He  was*  wotking  hard,  as  has  been  said,  with 
thoughts  and  hopes  now  tl'at  made  the  dry-as-dust  office  work 
sweet,  and  at  infrequent  intervals  he  and  his  affianced  met 
chietly  at  Mrs.  (liahain's.  Mrs.  Macgregor's  doors  were  closetl 
against  him.  On  S)(lney's  visits  to  his  home  he  was  al.nost 
invariably  absent,  anil  his  partner's  house  was  the  only  one  he 
visited.  When  they  met  in  company  here,  it  was  good  to  see 
Sydney  take  her  place  at  his  side,  as  one  having  the  right,  jeal- 
ous lest  anv  should  fancv  for  a  moment  that  she  was  either  afraid 
or  ashamed  of  her  choice.  The  reserve  that  would  have  been 
hers  had  her  lover  been  what  the  world  called  her  etjual,  and 
that  would  have  forbidden  any  public  pronounced  attention,  she 
resolutely  banished.  'l"he  world  should  resjject,  if  she  could 
make  it,  this  man  whom  she  delighted  to  honor. 

Ikit  it  was  a  false  position,  and  the  girl,  delicate  and  sensi- 
tive, felt  it. 

As  the  spring  wore  on  and  Easter  drew  near,  her  life  at  the 
Macgregors'  began  to  grotv  intolerable.  Katie  was  kind,  but 
unsympai'  c.  Katie's  mother  was  simply  unendurable.  All  her 
life  Sydnt  lad  been  the  beloved  and  |)ctteil  of  the  household — 
unkindness,  coldness,  covert  sneers,  icy  glances,  stabbed  her 
like  daggers.  Without  creating  iiilinile  gosr-i[)  and  scandal,  she 
could  not  (juit  Mrs.  Macgregoj's  house,  and  g()ssi|)  and  scanilal 
were  the  ni;j:htmares  of  her  life,  tier  wealth  woukl  have  opened 
scores  of  floors,  but  not  one  home.  She  was  h.ip[)y,  intinitely 
hap[)y  in  her  heart's  choice,  but  that  diil  not  prevent  very  many 
bitter  tears  l)eing  shed  in  the  solitude  of  her  own  room.     Shtf 


"/  SHALL   HAVE  HAD  MY  DAY» 


339 


It;  ;  no  wonder 
y  icicles, 
and  embraced 
ch-makingjoy. 
;  !  I  saw  that 
oil,  Sydney,  if 

•house  she  and 
Nolan  was,  as 
received  a  new 
lo  intention  of 
he  desired  end 
:1  reproachlully 
im  roundly  for 
is  mother  had 
ictance,  it  was 
>een  said,  with 
ist  olfice  work 
affianced  met 
)rs  were  closed 
he  was  al.nost 
ic  only  one  he 
is  good  to  see 
the  right,  jeal- 
as  eitlier  afraid 
'uld  have  been 
her  e(|ual,  and 
1  attention,  siie 
t,  if  she  could 

;ate  and  sensi- 

her  life  at  the 
was  kind,  but 
urable.  All  her 
le  houseiiold — • 
:s,  stabbed  her 
ul  scandal,  she 
.i[)  and  scandal 
il  have  opened 
ippy,  intinitely 
.ent  very  many 
'n  room.     Shtf 


grew  jxale  and  nervous,  lost  tlesh  and  color  ra|)idly  in  this 
ordeal,  and  a  troubleil,  startled  hx^k  was  growing  habitual  to 
the  lovely  serene  eyes.  Mrs.  Oraham  saw  with  ever-growing 
indignation  the  change  in  her  young  friend,  and  at  last  her  feel- 
ings grew  too  many  for  her,  and  she  lifted  up  her  voice  and 
spoke. 

"  I  never  thought,  Lewis,  whatever  your  faults — and  their 
name  is  legion,  very  likely — that  you  were  altogether  heartless  !  " 
cries  Mrs.  (Graham  with  compressed  lijis  and  Hashing  eyes. 

"My  dear  madam,"  expostulates  Mr.  Nolan,  looking  up 
laughingly  from  a  pile  of  legal  cap,  for  the  lady  had  gone  all  the 
way  to  the  Wall  street  office  to  rate  the  delinquent,  "  what  have 
1  done  now  ?  " 

"  What  are  you  not  doing,  rather  ?  Have  you  no  eyes  ?  Can- 
not you  see  that  she  is  growing  thin  as  a  shadow  and  white  as  a 
sjiirit  in  that  house,  under  the  tyranny  of  that  old  gorgon  ?  But, 
of  course,  you  cannot.  Men  are  proverbially  as  blind  as  bats. 
Other  |)eoi)le  can  see  how  wretchedly  the  poor  child  is  looking  ; 
but  you,  who  ought  to  be  the  first,  don't  or  won't  see  anything 
at  all.  Go  to  !"  cries  Mrs.  Graham,  who  laid  down  an  Eli/a- 
bethan  novel  just  before  coming  out.  "  I  have  no  patience 
wit!'  you." 

"  Do  you  mean  Sydney?"  Lewis  says,  in  a  troubled  tone. 
•'  My  dear  Mrs.  Graham,  what  can  I  do  ?  1  have  seen  the 
change  in  her  ;  1  know  they  make  her  sulTer  for  my  sake,  and  I 
— 1  am  powerless  to  help  her  or  take  her  from  them." 

Mis  dark  eyes  glow,  his  lips  set  sternly.  Never  has  he  felt 
the  bitterness  of  being  a  poor  man  as  he  feels  it  now.  He 
would  give  his  life  to  save  her  pain,  and  he  must  stand  by  and 
see  her  suffer,  powerless  to  heli)  ler. 

'•What  can  you  do  ?  "  retorts  Mrs.  Graham,  with  a  scornful 
little  snort.  "You  can  marry  h 'r,  I  suppose.  If /were  a 
man,"  cries  this  stout  and  excitable  matron,  "  and  a  lovely  girl 
were  ridiculous  enough  to  love  me,  and  that  girl  had  money 
enough  for  a  dozen,  do  you  think  1  would  leave  her  to  be  made 
miserable  by  a  cantankerous  old  cat  like  Helen  Macgregor? 
No,  sir,  1  would  marry  her  out  of  hand,  and  give  her  a  home  ol 
her  own,  and  a  husband  to  take  care  of  her,  and  never  stop  to 
think  of  it  twice." 

"  But  as  I  am  so  utterly  poor,  what  would  the  world  sav  ? 
Would  it  be  honorable " 

"A  fig  for  the  world— that  for  your  honor.  What  is  all  ilic 
world  to  you  compared  with  Sydney's  health  and  haijpin.ess  ? 


340 


•«/  SHALL   HAVE  HAD  MY  DAY." 


M 


n  I 


Honorable — T  like  tliat.  Is  it  more  honoraljle  for  you  to  grub 
alon-,'  in  this  office  fur  the  next  ten  years,  making  a  comi>etence 
while  you  let  her  life  he  tortured  out  of  her,  than  to  many  her 
and  make  her  happy  ?  I  admire  such  honor  !  (lood  morning 
to  you,  Mr.  Lewis  Nolan.  Unless  I  hear  something  more 
manly  of  you  soon,  you  will  kindly  consider  our  acquaintance  at 
an  end." 

In  spite  of  himself,  Nolan  laughs — Mrs.  Graham's  excitement 
and  indignation  are  so  real.     He  escorts  her  to  her  carriage. 

" '  Beggar  that  I  am,  I  am  poor  even  in  thanks  ;  but  I  thank 
you,'  "  he  says,  "  for  your  more  than  friendly  interest  in  Sydney 
and  me." 

"  Show  your  gratitude  then  by  acting  as  you  should.  Home, 
Thomas,"  retorts  Mrs.  (Iraham,  snappishly. 

He  returns  to  his  work,  but  he  cannot  work.  It  has  been 
his  dream  to  make  a  name  and  a  home  for  his  bride,  not  such  a 
home  as  she  has  been  accustomed  to  just  at  first,  but  still  one 
of  his  making.  But  what  if  ^^rs.  Graham  is  right  ?  lsS)(lney 
unhappy  among  the  Macgregors,  and  for  his  sake?  If  so,  is  it 
not  his  duty  to  tak"  her  from  them,  to  pocket  his  pride  and 
ambition,  defy  the  world's  scoff,  and  make  her  his  wife  at  once  ? 

He  tries  in  vain  to  concentrate  his  mind  on  the  brief  before 
him.  lie  throws  it  aside,  puts  on  his  hat  and  coat,  and  goes 
home.  It  is  one  of  Sydney's  days,  he  has  a  chance  of  finding 
her  there  yet.  He  has  noticed,  with  keenest  i)ain,  how  fragile 
and  changed  she  has  grown  of  late.  He  can  infer  i)retty  well 
what  kind  of  enemy  Mrs.  Macgregor  can  be. 

Sydney  is  still  there  ;  is  alone  in  the  little  parlor,  playing  for 
Lucy  in  the  chamber  above.  She  starts  up,  a  ilush  of  suri)rise 
and  delight  making  her  face  bright  at  sight  of  him, 

"  You,  Lewis,  and  before  five  !  How  could  you  tear  your- 
self away  from  that  enchanting  office  and  those  fascinating  big 
books  bound  in  calf?" 

*'  Don't  be  sarcastic,  Sydney,"  says  Mr.  Nolan  ;  "  sarcasm  is 
not  the  strong  point  of  your  sex.  I  tore  myself  away  because 
1  fancied  you  might  be  still  here,  and  I  was  hungry  to  see  you." 

The  bright  color  stays  in  her  face  under  his  grave  eyes  and 
at  his  words,  but  in  spite  of  it  he  can  see  the  change  in  her. 
The  hands  that  lie  loosely  in  her  lap  are  thin  and  transparent. 
He  takes  one  and  slips  off  without  an  effort  the  simple  engage- 
ment ring  he  has  given  her. 

"Three  weeks  ago,  Sydney,"  he  says,  that  troubled  look  in 
his  eyes,  "  this  ring  fitted  so  tightly  that  it  was  an  effort  to  get 


"/  SHALL    ILIVE    HAD  MY  DAY:' 


34» 


'or  yon  to  grub 


amethiiig  more 
icqiuiintancc  at 


My   princess,    what   is   the 


lonld.     Home, 


sarcasm  is 


it    Dn.       Now   see    it   drop   off. 
matter?" 

The  rosy  light  h,'avcs  her  face  ;  she  looks  away  from  him,  ont 
into  the  grimy  street,  npon  which  the  red  Husii  of  an  early  April 
smisot  Wc-. 

"Yon  are  snffering  for  me,"  he  goes  on  ;  "Mrs.  Macgregor 
is  making  your  life  miserable.  Yon  are  not  hai)i)y  there,  Syd- 
nc)',  I  can  see  that.  1  have  seen  it  from  the  first.  And  I— it 
will  be  so  many  years  before  I  have  a  fitting  home  to  ofter  you." 

She  does  not  look  at  him,  she  watches  those  ruby  gleams  of 
sunlight  on  the  dusty  street,  her  color  coming  and  gonig.  Her 
lieart  is  full  of  words,  but  she  is  a  woman,  and  her  lips  may  not 
speak  them.  He  has  droi)[)ed  her  hand,  and  is  walking  up  and 
down,  his  brows  bent.  He  stops  abruptly  before  her  in  his 
walk,  takes  both  hands,  and  gazes  down  at  her,  a  resolute  look 
in  the  shady  darkness  of  his  eyes. 

"Sydney,"  he  says,  "wMthoiit  a  home  ;  with  neither  fame  nor 
fortune  to  offer  you,  will  you  marry  me — at  once?" 

She  lays  her  lace  down  on  the  hands  that  clasp  hers,  almost 
with  a  sob. 

"  My  only  home  can  be  where  you  are,"  she  answers  ; 
is  no  home.  I  am— oh  !  so  nn'serable  there,  Lewis  j 
never  have  an),  home  except  as  your  wife." 

So  it  is  settled. 

******* 

Now  that  the  plunge  is  taken,  Mr.  Nolan  shows  himself  a 
man  of  energy  and  decision.  The  marriage  shall  take  |)lace 
at  once— this  very  month.  Miss  Owenson  pleads  for  a  little 
longer  respite. 

"  Not  quite  this  month,  Lewis— say  next.  I  can  never  be 
ready." 

"  Ready  ?  What  do  you  call  being  ready  ?  You  don't  mean 
to  go  in  for  an  expensive  trousseau,  1  hope.  At  our  wedtling 
such  a  thing  would  be  a  mockery." 

Sydney  knows  that,  and  hesitates.  Then  Mrs.  Graham  goes 
over  to  the  enemy,  and  her  side  kicks  the  beam. 

"  Married  in  May  !  Don't  you  know  May  is  the  unluckiest 
month  m  the  year  for  marriages  ?     It  is  not  to  be  thought  of." 

"  They  do  nearly  all  their  marrying  and  giving  in  marriage,  in 
May,  in  London,"  says  Miss  Owenson. 

''They  may  do  in  London  as  they  please  ;  yon  shall  do  in 
New  York  as  New  Yorkers  do." 

"  Does  nobody  marry  in  New  York  in  May,  Mrs.  Graham  ?" 


"  t/iai 
I  can 


342 


"/  SHALL  HAVE  HAD  MY  DAY:' 


I  ' 


"  Don't  nsk  ridiculous  (lucstions,  Miss  Owenson.  T?e  gnidcd 
by  the  superior  wisilum  of)  tun- ciders.  May  is  an  unlucky  inurry- 
ing  month.      I,et  us  c.iil  it  tlie  hist  week  of  A|MiI  and  he  happy." 

S\dney  laughs,  blushes,  ghmees  shyly  at  Mr.  Nolan,  and 
yields  the  ])oint  ;  but  in  her  eyes  no  niondi  will  be  unlucky  that 
will  make  her  Lewis's  wife.  As  tiiis  is  the  close  of  the  lirst 
week,  there  is  very  little  time  for  preparation.  Sydney  screws 
her  coinage  to  the  sticking  ])lace,  and  announces  the  fact  at 
lionie,  and  Mrs.  Afacgregor  turns  )ellow  with  passion. 

"1  cannot  prevent  this  madness  of  yours,  Sydney,"  she  says, 
in  a  voice  of  concentrated  rage  ;  "  but  in  no  way  will  1  coun- 
tenance it.  No  one  from  my  house  shall  be  present.  Across 
this  threshold  that  man  shall  nevjr  come." 

"That  is  understood,"  said  Sydney  Owenson,  very  pale,  but 
quite  calm.  "What  1  wish  to  kH)W  is,  if  I  have  your  permis- 
sion to  remain  here  until  my  wedding  day?  1  would  prefer  it 
myself.  An  open  family  feud  is  detjstable.  If  not,  1  will  go 
to  Mrs.  (iraham's. 

"  And  add  insult  to  injury.     That  I  could  never  forgive." 

"Then  1  remain.  I'or  that,  at  least,  Aunt  Helen,  1  thank 
you." 

lUit  Aunt  lli'len'^  answer  is  a  look  of  exceeding  bitterness. 
Katherine  says  little;  but,  two  days  after,  she  discovers  she 
owes  a  long-standing  visit  to  Philadelphia,  and  flits  away  to  pay 
her  debt. 

And  now  the  days  fly  :  one  by  one  they  dawn,  glide  by,  and 
are  over,  and  all  at  once  the  wedding-day  is  here. 

A  lovely  day — sunny,  serene,  cloudless.  In  Mrs.  Graham's 
carriage,  by  Mrs.  (iraham's  siile,  the  bride  goes  to  church.  She 
wears  a  pale  gray  travelling  suit,  with  a  trifle  of  white  lace 
and  blue  ribbon  at  the  throat,  a  gray  hat  and  gray  gloves.  Not 
a  flower,  not  a  jewel  ;  a  shop  girl  would  have  thought  it  plain. 
Slie  is  cpiite  white  with  emotion,  but  in  her  heart  there  is  not  a 
dt)ul)t,  not  a  tren'ior.  That  other  wedding  day,  with  all  its  bri- 
dal bells  and  bravery,  its  bright  array  of  bi  idesmaids,  comes  back 
for  a  moment,  but  she  banishes  the  uncanny  resemblance.  In- 
deed, ]>ertie  Vaughan  is  but  the  palest  shadow  of  niiMnory  now, 
and  has  been  ever  since  she  met  Lewis.  To-day  there  are 
neitiier  bells  nor  bridesmaids,  but  in  the  church  the  britlegrooin 
stands  looking  as  he  always  looks  in  Sydney's  eyes  "  a  man  of 
tnt-n." 

Uncle  Grif  awaits  her  at  the  door,  and  on  his  arm  she  goes 
up  the  aisle.     Little  Monseiur  Von  Ette  is  dancing  about,  wfld 


K» 


^^IIER  HE  ART'S  DESIRE  » 


343 


nn.  "Re  gnided 
unlucky  iiiurry- 
and  be  happy." 
Ir.  Nolan,  and 
be  unlucky  that 
use  of  the  lust 
Sydney  screws 
ices  the  fact  at 
ission. 

Iney,"  she  says, 
ay  will  I  coun- 
reseiit.     Across 

I,  very  pale,  but 
e  your  perniis- 
would  i)refer  it 
f  not,  1  will  go 

ver  forgive." 
Helen,  1  thank 

ding  bitterness, 
e  discovers  she 
iits  away  to  pay 

n,  glide  by,  and 
e. 

Mrs,  Graham's 
to  church.  She 
e  of  white  lace 
ly  gloves.  Not 
bought  it  plain, 
rt  there  is  not  a 
,  with  all  its  bri- 
lids,  comes  back 
lemblance.  Jn- 
jf  nuMiiory  now, 
o-day  there  are 

the  bridegroom 
eyes  "  a  man  of 

lis  arm  she  goes 
cing  about,  wild 


wit!)  repressed  excitement,  and  there,  grave  and  gray,  is  NTr. 
(iraham,  and  there  tearful  and  trembling  Mrs.  Nolan.  And 
now  she  kneels,  and  he  is  beside  her,  and  the  marriage  is  begim. 
Uncle  Crif  gives  her  away,  blushing  all  over  his  bald  head  ;  .Mrs. 
(Jraliam  snitfs  audibly  behind  her  pocket-handkerchief,  and  in 
Mrs.  Nolan's  eyes  there  are  (juiet  tears  ;  but  Sydney  lifts  two 
eyes  of  heavenly  radiance  to  the  bridegroom's  face  as  he  slijJS 
the  ring  on  her  finger,  and  knows  that  the  desire  of  her  heart  is 
hers. 

They  are  married.  I'^or  the  last  time  the  door  of  the  Mac- 
gregor  house  has  closed  upon  her  as  home  ;  it  is  to  Mrs.  Nolan's 
they  go  to  breakfast.  And  there  Lucy  awaits  them,  and  into 
].ucy's  arms  the  bride  goes,  and  cries  for  a  moment  hysteri- 
cally. 

"  My  own  dear  sister,"  Lucy  says,  "  Heaven  bless  and  keep 

you  both." 

So  she  has  been  married,  and  the  outrage  upon  society  cpn- 
summated.  With  neither  bridesmaids  nor  bridal  gifts,  nor  re- 
ception, nor  veil,  nor  wreath,  nor  trailing  whiteness  of  wedding- 
robe,  nor  anything  proper. 

Hut  it  is  doubtful  if  ever  more  blissful  bride  stood  by  her 
wedded  lover's  side  than  Sydney  Nolan. 


CHAPTER  XL 

•'  HER   heart's    desire." 

HE  nine  days'  wonder  was  at  an  end  ;  the  Wonderful 
Wedding  had  become  a  thing  of  the  past.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Nolan  had  been  wandering  about  for  fully  six 
weeks,  and  were  shortly  expected  home. 
Home  !  Where  ultimately  that  was  to  be,  Lewis  Nolan  had 
not  the  faintest  idea.  His  'ntention  was  to  take  his  wife  to  a 
hotel  upon  their  return,  and  once  he  had  asked  her,  if  among 
them  she  had  any  preference,  and  Sydney  had  blushed  in  a 
guilty  way  and  evaded  an  answer.  The  man's  pride  to  a  cer- 
tain degree  had  been  excoriated  by  his  marriage,  and  he  shrank 

■ST1S.11,     {/SJIUaj/.T,     it    iilOl  UtS.;       -Cil.TlLl  V_l!V-3b      IlUTS!      H_lC^VTing      llUS     3S.11J- 

ject.     'I'hey  had  gone  to  Washington  first,  then  westward  ;  it 
did  not  matter  where  just  at  present,  you  know  ;  they  did  not 


V.A 


"irr.n  fn.Airrs  ni.stRp..^ 


% 


\  \ 

\ 

^^E 


trt-.'ul  flic  cNtrfl,,  1,1, f  n  siihliioaU-.l,  .•ilKTcMli/.-d.  n|»t„r<Mis  u'..rl(l 
Mr.  Nol.n  Italy  an.    t!u.  Rhine,  I\,ns.  ami  Na,.ol..o,    H.c  Tl      1 

of.  1)1,1  Mrs.  N„l:.n  t-xprct  to  hc.np.ck  hi,,,  at  ti.is  early  st^we 
a  nrel^'n;  P^  He  objected  to  l>uin.  trottc<l  al>ont  Ln^ 
at  present :  his  wife  in.ght  co,is„lcr  hcsclf  f,.rtunato  that  he 
h.u  hn.norcd  her  l,y  leaving  Wall  Street,  even  for  a  day.  And 
S)  dney  had  langlK.-d,  and  given  „,,  th,-  iH>int.  It  was  deh  ^htful  to 
oboy  Lew,s,  to  feel  he  had  the  rightVc,  c(>n.,,KUKl,  haKl  '  bJ 
longed  to  hun,  to  h,n,  al(,ne,  wholly  and  for  all  tinie  > 

I5»t    the    srx    ;veeks   end-d,    and    they   ^vere    co.nin-    back 
om.ng   back -where?      Once    ,no,e     Nolan    broached      ho 
hotel    <,uestion-oncc   more   Sydney   slipper)  out    of  it   with 
a  caress.np   -'Wait  nntil  we  get  to  New  Yo,-k,  I'ew.V    I'M  Vie 
cult  then.      All  through  the  honeymoon  a  conspiracy  had  been 
;n  progress;  n,yste,n,>^^^     letters  passed  bet  wee,'   Mrs.   (;,auu 
Anc    the  „  ,de,  which  the  hndegioorn  was  not  i>ennitted  to  see 
and  winch  wreathed  M,s.  Nolan's  face  with  di,l,ples  ' 

One  lovely  June  ,nornh>g,  a  ste  nner  lloated  np  "to  her  pier 

of  Com,  ''''''\'""  ^'""f  ''""'^  '"-^'^^  ^'^'^^'  fa.niHar'din  and  dus! 
of  (.otham  A  very  elegant  private  carriage,  with  a  pair  of 
K.nd,.o,ne  back  horses  and  a  coachn,:u.,^l.iacker  tllan  t  e 
horses,  was  (hawn  up  to  the  pier.     Within  sat  Mrs    C;,aha,n 

urn  i^^a  1  ;;f  1 "'  ''r:^^^^  -^'  ^-^  -sued,  :^. 

qumcs  all  rou,)d,  and  the  young  wife  was  informed  she  was 
looking  uncommonly  well,  ana  then  the  .lu  utet  we.e  Hash  ,  ' 
away  up  tow'n  S)cln<.y  sat,  and  talked,  ind  looked  nen ous 
and  cast  wistful  sulelong  glances  at  he,-  husband.  Mr  N c  1 , 
uncomortably  unconscious  of  his  desti.iy,  but  with  a  feeh  ^ 
that  .u  the  rest  knew,  took  out  a  damp  morning  paper  and 
vv.th  a  true  "  manied-.nan  manner"  cilmly  beg^n  to  'rJ 
1  esently  they  were  ve,y  far  up  town  in  quiet  and  dign  I  ed 
1  i.'  '  ^.7^"'^-^^^"^*  stateliness,  and  before  one  of  these  "  pa- 
latial residences,  semi-detached,  with  shrubbery  in  front  and 
an  air  of  elegant  rusticity,  the  carriage  stoi>ped. 

"Lewis,"  bydney  said,  in  a  trenmlous  whisper,  layinij  her 
hand  on  his  aim,  "  this  is— //^jw^"  ^     '      ^    ^       ' 

His  eyes  answered  her  ;  he  said  nothing,  only  sprang  out  and 
assisted  the  ladies.  Uncle  Cjif  .p.i^i,.,i  "n..-  LJ  .."^  '^'^"" 
uas  (h-iven  round  to  certain  stables  in  the  rear. 

They  entered  an  iini)osing  hall,  hun.r 


with  paintings,  rich  in 


"///i7»'  //E.tRrs  D/:s/Av:." 


J'fS 


.  lapttitoiis  world 
lCiiio|i{-,  and  show 
'ol'-on  (ho  'I'liiid  ; 
ix  wrrks'  holiday 
)()t  fo  be  (hoiij^ht 
It  this  early  st;ij(c 
^■d  ;ilx>ut  luiroiKj 
oitunutc  lh;it  hii 

for  a  da^.  And 
f  >vas  (lc)ii;htfid  to 
and,  fhat'  she  be« 

time  ! 

e   coii>ii7<^'   !)a(;k. 
I    broarhed    the 

out  of  it  with 
,  Lewis;  I'll  de- 
^>lr^cy  had  been 
•n  Airs.  (Jrahain 
HMiiiitted  to  see, 
Jl)Ies, 

1  irp  to  her  i)ior, 
Jar  din  :iui\  dust 

with  a  jxiir  of 
acker  than  the 
t  Mrs.    Orahani 

ensued,  and  in- 
fornicd  she  was 
I't  were  tlasiiing 
looked  nervous 
d.     Mr.  Nolan, 

with  a  feeling 
ling  i)ai)er,  and 
)egan  to  read. 
t  and  dignified 
e  of  these  "pa- 
ry  in  front  and 

per,  laying  her 

sprang  out  and 
id  the  carriage 

lintings,  rich  in 


bron/cs  and  statuary,  and  into  idinin^  room,  perf  .  t  in  (.vrry 
dark  and  handsome  appointment,  where  a  table  Mood  with  a 
silver  and  <hina  breakfast  cqw  .age,  and  where  M annua  Nolan 
came  t  wani  to  meet  and  welcome  her  son  and  daughter. 
And  still  in  silence  Lewis  saw  it  all. 

*'  How  is  Lucy?"  Sydney  asked, 

"  r.etter  than  iihual,  and  Sydney  sick,  as  perhaps  her  letters 
have  told  you.  Will  you  go  up-stairs  and  take  off  your  thin  -s  ? 
1  ou  nnist  be  famished  after  your  journey.  1  will  show  you  die 
\va\." 

"Come,  Lewis,"  Sydney  said,  shyly,  and  Lewis  followed  up 
the  long  easy  Stan-way,  to  another  hall  both  perfect  m  i  very 
nnnnle  detad  of  costly  ujjholstery.  Mannna  Nolan  threw 
oi-en  a  door  and  displayed  a  vista  of  three  rooms  eu  suite, 
([inte  superb  in  coloring  and  appointment. 

"  1  ho|)e  they  will  |)lease  you,"  .said  Mamma  Nolan.  <'  Mrs. 
(baham  lollowedyour  instructions  to  the  letter.  Now  make 
haste,  like  good  children,  and  {X)nie  down  to  breakfast." 

She  bustled  away,  and  husband  and   wife   were  alone.     S,(.'. 
ney  stood,  that  lluitering  color  of  hers  (!eei)ening  and  fadin  ■ 
tiien  she  •',.,.•'  and  threw  herself  into  his  arms, 

"  Oh,  J.rwis,"  Oie  said  again,  "this  is  home." 

He  Iv  Id  I.er  St!  \  m  silence,  gazing  about  the  rich  and  beau- 
tilul  roc'iy. 

"  You— ■..!!  -!^  not  angry  that  I  did  not  cons'dt  you?"  she 
sai(K  ].kad..,g|y.  »  1  wanted  to  surprise  you.  It  is  so  lon<T 
since  I  have  had  a  home,  n  ie;d  home,  that  the  thou^ht  of  thit 
has  been  sweet  to  me.  You  do  not  mintl,  Lewis  ?  Why  don't 
you  speak  ?" 

"  \Vhat  can  I  say,  Sydney  ?  I  feel  crushed.  Fortune  seems 
to  shower  fairy  gifis  upon  me.  1  receive  all  and  give  nothing. 
1  here  are  no  words  that  I  can  speak.  Some  day— if  ever— when 
1  am  a  successful  man  1  will  tell  you  what  1  feel ;  just  now  I 
cannot.      1  can  only  say— I  love  my  wife." 

Perhaps  Mr.  Nolan  could  have  said  in  his  niost  elo(|uent 
moments  nothing  his  wife  woidd  have  iiked  so  well.  She  laughed 
as^she  direw  off  hat  and  jacket,  and  h.■~^^^^  to  smooth  her  hair. 

r  ■fJ'  %,'"^'^'>'  '^""^^^  '^  it  not?  Mr.  (iiaham  and  Uncle 
v.iit,  Mrs.  (.raham  and  your  mother  were  all  in  the  plot.  You 
never  call  tell,  Lewis,"  said  Mrs.  Nolan,  i)laintively,  "  what  1 
nave  suttered  the  -'.ast  six  \v='ck;  •        •        ■  • 


I  an 


cce 


quite  sure  of  it,  my  love. 


iiiL*  octjrcL. 


'And  it  is  the  last,  the  very  last  I  eve 


LS' 


r  mean  to  keep  from 


— w-* 


346 


TEDD  Y. 


you  for  a  moment.     Now  lot  us  go  down  to  breakfast,  for  I  am 
most  excruciatingly  hungry." 

Sydney's  new  life  was  fairly  begun — her  unclouded  new  life. 
I,ewis  made  his  daily  pilgrimage  to  Wall  Street  early  in  the 
morning,  and  madam  generally  drove  down  for  him  early  in  the 
evening.  Lucy  was  well,  that  is,  much  better  than  usual. 
Katie  Xiacgregor  was  back,  had  roped  in  the  erratic  old  Von- 
derdonck  at  last,  and  was  to  lasso  him  for  good  at  St.  Alban's, 
in  early  autumn.  Mrs.  Macgregor,  now  that  the  evil  was  inevi- 
table, smiled  upon  her  fair,  erring  relative  once  more,  even 
upon  that  fair  relative's  pauper  husband.  Finally,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Nolan  gave  an  "  At  Home,"  preparatory  to  Mrs.  Nolan's  Hit- 
ting away  before  the  July  heats,  and  a  large  assembly  were  bid- 
den and  came.  It  was  an  affair  to  be  remembered — tlie  ro- 
manlic  interest  attaciiing  to  the  marriage  ;  the  lovely,  blissful 
face  of  the  young  wife,  her  ex(iuisite  toilet  and  dianionds  ;  the 
stalely  bearing  and  air  noble  of  the  young  husband,  carrying 
himself  as  one  to  the  manner  born  ;  the  magnificence  of  the 
house  itself — all  combined  to  make  this  reception  quite  out  of 
common — a  brief  glimjjse  of  romance. 

And  so  Sydney  has  her  heart's  desire,  the  husband  she  loves, 
and  a  home  that  is  an  ideal  home  in  its  beauty  and  perfectness  ; 
and  is  that  world's  wonder,  rare  as  the  blossom  of  the  century 
plant — a  perfectly  happy  woman. 


CHAPTER  XH. 


■  I 


*A  1 


TEDDY. 

HK  first  days  of  July  send  Mrs.  Nolan  to  Newport  for 
the  blazing  weeks,  and  Mrs.  (Iraham  and  Katherinc 
Macgregor  go  also.  Mr.  Nolan  escorts  them,  stays  a 
day,  and  returns  to  town.  He  has  grown  used  to 
bring  stared  at  as  the  hero  of  a  love  match,  a  sort  of  modern 
Claude  Melnotte,  a  lucky  young  barrister,  who  has  successfully 
carried  off,  over  the  heads  of  all  competitors,  the  beautiful  heir* 
ess  of  fabulous  thousands.  Great  things  are  predicted  of  thii 
foriunaie  young  man  by  the  knowing  ones. 

"i^    young  fellow  of  prodigious  talent,  sir,  great  oratorical 
powe.  3,  keen  forensic  abilities.     With  his  own  cleverness,  indus- 


i<   U' 


TEDD  Y. 


reakfast,  for  I  am 


347 


r,  great  oratorical 
cleverness,  indus- 


»r}'  and  ainl)itioir  co;,iI)incd  with  the  great  beauty  and  w.-alth 
ot  his  wife,  and  the  social  power  she  will  wield,  any  c\u\-or  is 
oi)en  to  Nolan  -ANV,  sir— bar,  bench,  or  senate.  TIil.'  \'()iiii<. 
man  will  be  a  judge  at  tiiirty,  sir— a  follow  of  infinite  caj.abili! 
tics,  and  auia/mgly  shrewd  for  a  youngster.  I.ovely  creature, 
the  wife. 

It  seemed  as  if  Nolan  himself,  who  said  very  little  about  it, 
had  notions  that  conicidcd.  Certainly  he  did  not  spare  him- 
self; he  worked  without  stint  or  measure.  Sydney  entreated 
him,  when  he  made  his  flying  visits,  to  remain  a  week  ;  he 
kissed  her,  laughed  at  her,  ami  retmned  inexorably.  She  was 
growing  jealous  of  those  grimy  big  tomes,  of  his  office  and  pro- 
lession  that  enchamed  him.  How  nuich  stronger  hold  they 
seemed  to  have  upon  him  than  she  had.  Ambitious  he  had  al- 
ways been  and  his  affection  for  his  wife  was  but  an  redded  si)ur. 
She  must  be  proud  as  well  as  fond  of  the  penniless  husband  she 
had  chosen,  and  he  grudged  every  lost  hour  as  one  that  keut 
success  an  hour  longer  off. 

Every  Saturday  evening  he  w,>nt  to  Newi)ort  and  spent  Sun- 
day with  his  wile.  As  a  matto  of  course,  therefore,  Sunday 
became  the  one  day  of  the  week  to  this  infatuated  young 
woman.  Still  the  intervals,  with  their  water  parties,  drivinS 
parties,  horseback  rides,  long  walks,  evening  hoi).s,  surf  bathingT 
band,  the  well-dressed,  well-mannered  crowd  of  men  and 
women,  all  the  light,  insoucu.nt,  sunny,  sensuous  life  of  a  fash, 
lonable  watering-place,  could  hardly  drag  to  any  very  weari- 
Bome  extent.  Sydney  grew  plumi)  and  rosy  as  Hebe's  self,  and 
seeined  to  have  found  a  fairy  fountain  of  perennial  beauty  and 
youth.  Mr.  Nolan,  on  the  other  hand,  as  August  bla/ed  to  a 
close,  began  to  look  a  triHe  jaded  and  worn;  hot  weather  and 
hard  work  were  beginning  to  tell  upon  him,  and  Sydney,  quick 
to  note  the  slightest  shade  on  that  one  face  of  all  foces,  grew 
alarmed  and  despite  the  expostulations  of  fiiends  and  ad- 
mirers, llitted  back  to  the  city  to  see  that  Lewis  did  not  go  off 
with  congestion  of  the  brain  from  over-study. 

"  What  could  that  beautiful  creature  have  seen  in  that  fellow?" 
queried  the  Newport  gentlemen,  pulling  their  pet  mustaches 
meduatively.  "A  clothes-wearing  fellow,  with  nothing  to  say 
for  himself,  nothing  m  the  way  of  looks  to  speak  of,  besides  a 
loieraDle  figure  and  a  pair  of  ovcn/rnwn  ^^^/e^  Wh'-t''^  'h-re 
about /^/y//  that  she  should  have  thrown  away  herself  and' her 
-  ucais  ui)on  him,  and  after  four  months  of  matrimony,  adore 
-he  groaud  he  walks  ou  ?  "  ^ 


348 


TEDDY. 


'i1       < 


■\      1 

il  ■ 

Pll 

v!  1  r    . 

i  i 

!!      i 

J            « 

Sydney  was  loolcing  forward  to  a  very  gay  winter.  She  know 
iluit  she  could  further  her  husl)an(r.s  views  by  her  own  gracious 
iiospitality.  in  the  case  of  almost  every  successful  uwn  there 
is  always  a  woman  who  does  for  him  what  he  cannot  do  for  him- 
self, a  good  genius  in  petticoats  without  whom  success  could 
never  have  been  achieved.  She  may  be  his  wife  or  she  may 
not,  the  world  may  know  of  her  or  it  may  not,  but  she  clings  to 
hnn  and  loves  him,  and  her  slender  hand  either  pulls  or  jnishes 
iiim  to  heights  i)e  else  would  never  attain.  So  Sydney  puri)osed 
taking  society  by  storm  this  winter,  giving  a  series  of  brilliant 
entertainments,  and  niaking  her  husband's  face  as  familiar  to 
all  inlluential  New  York  as  the  statue  in  Union  Scjuare.  P.ut 
woman  proposes — the  Infinite  Justice  that  disposes  bad  decreed 
very  differently  from  Mrs.  Lewis  Nolan. 

September  was  here,  and  September  in  New  York  is  a  per- 
fect month,  a  gem  in  the  necklace  of  the  year. 

Coming  home  from  a  shopping  expedition  one  afternoon, 
Mrs.  Nolan  was  informed  by  the  smart  black  boy  in  buttons 
who  answered  the  bell,  that  a  caller  awaited  her  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. 

"  ]5een  waitin'  more'n  half  an  hour,  missis,"  says  Jim  ;  "said 
jest  to  tell  you,  please,  as  how  a  very  old  friend  wished  to  see 
you.  Didn't  give  me  no  nan>e,  nor  card,  nor  nuffin,  missis. 
Clot  a  little  boy  wid  her,  missis." 

Sydney  descended  to  the  drawing-room.  A  lady,  dressed 
in  black,  sat  on  a  sofa,  her  back  to  the  door,  turning  a  piioto- 
graph  book,  and  for  some  seconds  did  not  turn.  A  child  of 
four,  a  liandsome  little  fellow,  in  velvet  blouse  and  breeches, 
goUlen  ringlets  and  a  pair  of  shapely  juvenile  legs,  looked  up 
at  her  with  a  friendly  smile. 

Very  n)ueh  puzzled,  Sydney  drew  near ;  the  child  was  a 
stranger  to  her — who  was  the  lady  ? 

The  lady  arose  at  the  moment,  turned,  and  faced  her.  There 
was  a  gasp,  a  cry,  a  rush,  and  Sydney  was  clasping  in  her  arms 
Cyrilla  Hendrick  ! 

"Cyrilla!  Cyrilla  I  oh,  darling  Cy!" 

"  My  dearest  Sydney  !  " 

Yes,  it  was  Cyrilla's  voice— Cyrilla's  dear,  finniliar  face  upon 
which  she  was  raining  kisses.  The  old  fascination  of  her  school- 
,;irl  days  was  not  outgrown  by  later  lov  ,  As  the  world  held 
but  one  oe 


ut  one  perfect  man,  that  man  her  huri! 


su  it  iickl  but  oiic 


Cyrilla  Hendrick,  friend  dearest  and  beNt  beloveil. 

"  My  pet,  my  pet !  "  cries  Mrs.  Nolan,  in  a  rai)ture,  "  what  a 


TEDD  K 


3-^9 


'ntcr.  She  knew 
her  own  gracious 
cssful  ni;\n  there 
mnot  do  for  hini- 
)m  success  could 
wife  or  slie  may 
but  she  clings  to 
r  pulls  or  ])ushes 
Sydney  purposed 
ieries  of  brilliant 
ce  as  familiar  to 
jn  Stiuare.  P>ut 
OSes  bad  decreed 

V  York  is  a  per- 

1  one  afternoon, 
:  boy  in  buttons 
her  in  the  draw- 
says  Jim  ;  "  said 
nd  wished  to  see 
;r  nuftin,  missis. 

A  lady,  dressed 
turning  a  photo- 
irn.  A  child  of 
e  and  breeches, 
legs,   looked  up 

the  child  was  a 

accd  her.  There 
ping  in  her  arms 


.miliar  face  upon 

on  of  her  school- 

s  tiie  world  held 

I  it  iickl  but  uiic 

^ed. 

rapture,  "  what  a 


surprise  this  is  !  Oh  !  Cy— darling— how  J  have  longed  for  you, 
worried  about  you,  all  this  time  !  Where  have  you  been  ?  Why 
did  you  not  tind  me  out  before?  J,et  me  look  at  you  and 
make  sui>  it  is  my  very  own  Cyrilla." 

She  h  jids  her  off  and  gazes.  Cyrilla  smiles.  She  is  chant;ed, 
but  not  greatly.  There  is  the  creamy,  colorless  beauty,'"the 
youthful  roundness,  the  perfect  contour  of  other  days,  the  old 
haughty  poise  of  the  head,  the  great  dusk,  sombre  eyes,  the 
high  bred,  distinguished  air  Sydney  remembers  so  well. 
"  \Vell  ?  "  Cyrilla  says,  coolly. 

"  You  have  changeii,  dear,  and  yet,  where  the  change  is  I 
cannot  make  out.  Oh  I  my  Cy— my  own  dear  friend,  1  can- 
not tell  you,  indeed  1  cannot  tell  you,  how  hapi)y  it  makes  me 
fo  sec  you  again." 

'^  1  was  sure  of  it,"  is  Cyrilla's  answer,  "  else  be  very  certain, 
S\dMey,  1  had  never  come.  It  is  my  turn  to  look  at  you.  You 
liave  changed  certainly.  How  handsome  you  have  grown  ! 
You  were  always  i)retty,  but  not  like  this." 

"  Mapi)iness  is  an  excellent  cosmetic,"  laughs  Mrs.  Nolan, 
";ind  i  am  very  hai)p\',  Cyrilla." 

"  You  look  it.     And  so  you  are  '  wooed  and  married  and  a' 
—what  a  fortunate  man  is  Mr.  Nolan  I    i  hope  he  appreciates  it." 
"  Fully,  1  assure  you." 

All  this  time  they  have  been  standing  clasping  each  other's 
hands,  gazmg  m  each  other's  faces.  Now  the  youthful  per- 
sonage m  the  velvet  blouse,  who  has  l)een  standing  unnoticed 
r-gardmg  this  scene,  pulls  Cyrilla's  dress  and  pipes^in  : 
"  Mauuna — mamma,  who  is  the  pretty  lady  ?  " 
"Manuna!"  Sydney  starts  as  if  she  was  shot,  and  looks 
from  one  to  the  other.  She  has  absolutely  forgotten  the 
child  m  the  suilden  surprise  of  the  meeting.  Cyrilla's  son, 
surely,  for  Cyrilla's  black,  solemn  eyes  shine  in  the  baby  face, 
although  the  small,  f.iir  features  and  Haxen  curls  are  verv  unlike 
her  tiiend's  dark  skin  and  jetty  hair. 

"This  lady  is  Auntie  Sydney— _)v«  know  Auntie  Sydney?" 
1  he  small  head  nods  intelligently. 

"Now  go  and  tell  Auntie  Sydney  who  you  are,  my  pet." 
" '1  he  youpg  gentleman  advances,    verv    much  at    his    ease, 
looks  up  into  Mrs.  Nolan's  face,  and  givJs  his  biography. 
"  I  IS  Teddy  Croo."  fa     i    / 

"  Oh,  Cy  !  "  Sydney  says,  and  snatches   Teddy  Croo   in    her 


arms  and  takes  away  his  breath  with  k 
of  this." 


isses,  "I  never  dreamed 


ill'i  I 


i 


i' 

, 

■ 

, 

' 

350 


TEDDY. 


She  is  paler  than  Cyrilla  with  emotion,  as  she  bends  ovci 
Cyiillas  son,  all  llie  nuiteinal  heart  in  a  wife's  bosom  aroused. 

"  Von  knew  that  I  was  n)a  "ied,  ilid  you  not  ?"  Cyrilla  says, 
quietly.  "You  remember  my  visit  to  you  at  Mrs.  Macgregor's 
live  )  ears  ago  last  May  ?  That  was  my  bridal  tour,  Sydney. 
1  iiad  been  married  two  weeks  then." 

She  stops  a  moment.  Siie  has  great  self-command,  always 
had,  but  even  her  self-command  is  shaken  a  little  as  she  thinks 
of  then  and  now. 

"  1  married  I'Yed  Carew  at  Mrs.  Colonel  Delamere's  house, 
Sytlney,  and  under  pretext  of  visiting  you,  came  to  New  York 
with  him.  It  was  all  of  a  piece — duplicity  on  my  \)art  from  first 
to  last,  duplicity  that  woiked  its  own  retribution.  The  very- 
day  1  left  you  I  met  Miss  Jones  in  a  P.roadway  omnibus,  and 
she  went  all  the  way  to  Montreal  to  tell  my  aunt.  The  deceit, 
the  plotting,  the  falseiioods,  from  beginning  to  end,  were  niine— 
mine  alone.  Fred  urged  nie  to  tell  the  truth — he  only  yielded 
to  please  me.  1  wanted  him  and  I  wanted  Miss  Dormer's  money, 
and  in  trying  to  secure  both,  lost  both,  it  was  simple  justice — 
1  acknowledge  that." 

"  1  wrote  10  Mr.  McKelpin,"  faltered  Sydney.  "There were 
such  extraordinary  rumors  afloat.  Some  said  you  had  been 
married  to  Mr.  Carew  ;  otliers,  that  although  you  were  widi  him 
in  New  York,  you  were  not  his " 

"  His  wife— go  on,  Sydney.  That  I  should  lose  reputation  as 
well  as  husband  and  fortune,  1  also  richly  deserved  ;  for  across 
my  aunt's  dying  bed,  with  Fred's  eyes  upon  me, I  denied  our 
marriage." 

"  1  never  believed  that  story,"  says  Sydney.  "  I  mean,  that 
you  were  not  married,  if  you  were  with  Lieutenant  Carew  in 
this  city,  1  knew  as  surely  as  I  lived,  it  was  as  his  wife  ! " 

"  My  loyal  Sydney  !  Yes,  I  never  feared  your  hearing,  I  never 
doubte'i  your  fulelity.  Whatever  has  befallen  me,  I  have  fully 
merited.  You  know  how  jjoor  Aunt  Phil  hated  Fred — well,  she 
was  dying,  and  she  asked  me  to  swear  that  I  was  not  his  wife. 
J  see  tha\  scene  at  this  moment,  Sydney,  as  vividly  as  1  saw  it 
ti)en.  1  live  it  over  in  dreams.  I  awake  with  a  start  a  dozen 
times  a  day,  and  come  back  from  that  dingy,  stilling  room,  with 
Aunt  Dormer,  a  ghastly  sight  in  the  bed,  Mrs.  Fogarty  and  Miss 
Jones  watching  with  deadly  hatred  for  my  downfall,  and  Fred 
standing  with  folded  arms  wailing  for  me  to  apeak.  I  have 
never  seen  him  since,  Sydney— no,  not  once— never  even  have 
heard  of  huii  from  that  dreadful  day." 


1:  I 


TEDDY. 


351 


slie  bends  ovci 

bosom  aroused. 

?"    Cyrilla  says, 

Trs.  Mucgrt'goi's 

I    tour,    Sydney. 

omuiand,  always 
:le  as  she   thinks 

ilamere's  house, 
ne  to  New  York 
ny  part  from  first 
tion.  The  very 
\f  omnibus,  and 
nt.  The  deceit, 
nd,  were  mine — 
-he  only  yielded 
Dormer's  money, 
;  simple  justice — 

^.  "  There  were 
d  you  had  been 
)U  were  widi  him 

ose  rei>utation  as 
rved ;  for  across 
me, I  denied  our 

"  I  mean,  that 
itenant  Carew  in 
his  wife  ! " 
r  hearing,  I  never 
me,  I  have  fully 
[  Fred — well,  she 
was  not  his  wife, 
ividly  as  I  saw  it 
1  a  start  a  dozen 
iliing  room,  with 
^'ogarty  and  Miss 
nfall,  and  Fred 
;jpeak .  I  have 
never  even  have 


For   a   nioment—only   a  moment— she    falters   and    breaks 


down,  but  she  neither  sobs  nor  sheds  a  tear.     Jt 


that  are  full 


is  Sydney's  eyes 


I  lost  all,  Sydney,"  Cyrilla  goes 


on.     "Aunt  Dormer  died 


and  let  all  she  possessed,  all  J  had  slaved  and  sinned  for,  to 
I  onaldMckelpm.  I  fell  down  in  a  fit  of  some  kind  on  M.ss 
IJormers  bed  I  remember  that,  and  1  know  that  it  was  Fred 
who     ifted  and  carried  me  to  my   room.     I  heard   him  whisper 

IZ'^h  ^T\F-  ^^^'^''-  ']''''  ^11  i^  I'azy-my  head  was  not 
cleai  It  had  the  queerest  teelmg,  as  if  it  were  grown  enor- 
mously large  and  as  light  as  a  cork. 

"  The  strain  had  been  too  much  for  me— the  illness  was  com- 

ng    on  even  then  that  nearly  ended  my  life.     I  had  but  one 

Idea— to  get  away  from  that  house,  from  Montreal,  before   Mc- 

.  ;Vll        '""'''"f  ^"  ^^'  ^'°'"^'  spnining  through  empty  air.    I  can 

vh<..iir" '""'"' ?'■  ,"'-''">'  ^''■''^'-  ^  ^^^^  "^  ^  ''"^t^n  liospltal 
when  life  came  back,  so  weak  that  1  could  neither  lift  my  hand, 
noi  speak  aloud,  nor  care  whether  1  lived  or  died.  Thev  were 
very  kind  to  me.     One  of  the  physicians  had  taken  .  foLy  to 

nt,  It  seemed,  and  gave  me  devoted  care  and  skill.     Gradually 

.iKri;ow?h^^*i'' '""''  h'"""  ^'-  ^'-^^  ^  discovered  where  1  was 
and  now  l  had  come  there. 

in.^M^r"  ^"f\"'  /^"  ^T"i"g'.it  appeared,  the  conductor  go- 

I'd  o  Tt      Tl^"""^  ""'  ^^'"^'  "^  '">'  ^^^^  '^  all  appearance 
cau  or  (lying,      ihce  was  great  excitement   and  alarm,  and 

he  .noment  we  reached   Boston  1   was  brought   here.  h 

been  1 1,  very  ill_so  ill  that  at  one  time  Dr.  Di^by  had  thoudi 
n^^tS"^^    My  friends  in    Montreal   haUl^li^edt 

le     I     of"  "'"'•  ,"u'  "^'^'"^■^^'^^  McKelpin,  and  he   had 

credit    ?  ^h     \  '"i'  ""'t  '^?,'"'"  ''^  ^'''  ''^""^^"d  d^l'^rs  to  mv 
ucditm    he  bank.     Donald  McKelpin,  whom   I    had   alwavs 

was'a  "hT  "^  f ,'  "'""!  '  ^^^^  ^'"'"^■^"">'  1«»  °"  -"d  d-'    -    I 

i?no       S  T      '  f "' "'""'^  after  all,  it  seemed.    I  cried   ove^ 

wn   ^nX     T~^'  ''"'"  V  "^^'  ^"^  ^  ''^'  ^'^^k  and  broken 

t  1  civT   n  r  '^ ""^'"^-rv^-'cl  moved  me.     It  was  a  cold 

^r'>  H         n^te ;  he  made  no  allusion   to    my  marriage  or  my 

ri  ; m  iT  ''  "  'T^'^y  ''f^  '^'^'  '^'^  >^^^"  ^••^'"-^^^-^d  fri^^'Hl  Miss 
J  h  1  .  Donner,  having  left  him  her  who!,  property,  he  consid' 
e  c    ,t  hK  duty  to    .ee  that  the  services  I  hadVendered  h^   es- 

V-  vhu  T' 1  T  ^''  . ''''  '"'"'^-^  ^■^''•^'  '-^  unreciuited  U 
Nva.  nhat  i   had  no  right  to  expect  from  him,  of  all  men,  but 


352 


TEDD  y. 


I  felt  that  it  was  no  more  than  I  had  riglitfiilly  earned  from 
lier.  Twice  that  amount  would  not  have  repaid  me  for  llie  hfe 
1  led  al  Miss  Dormer's,  so  J  answered  Mr.  McKeli)in,  ac- 
cepted tlie  money  humbly  and  gratefully,  and  tiien  turned  my 
thoMgiits  to  the  future.  I  was  not  lo  die,  it  seemed,  and  lonely 
and  desol  ite  as  life  would  be,  I  clung  to  it  as  we  all  cling. 
1  had  five  thousand  ilollars,  and  youth,  and  just  then  that  seemed 
aflluence.  Long  before  Dr.  Digby  thought  me  fit  to  leave  his 
care,  1  bade  hiui  good-bye  and  came  her^'  to  New  York,  found  a 
boarding  house,  and  grew  strong  at  my  leisure, 

"  1  am  not  going  to  tell  you,  Sydney,  ho  v  desolate  ainl  heart- 
sick, remorseful  and  despairing  1  wasnt  Umk'S.  If  you  Ir.u.]  been 
heie  1  would  have  come  to  you  ;  you  were  just  the  only  j,»i  rson  in 
the  world  whose  pity  1  could  have  boriic.  1  had  not  one  iriend  in 
the  whole  great  city,  and  of  ail  lonelin  .-•■s  the  loneliness  of  one 
utterly  alone  in  a  great  city  is  the  most  uiter.  To  see  thousands 
l)ass  you  by  and  not  one  familiar  tace,  to  feel  a  lost,  unknown 
creature  among  all  who  come  and  go,  to  !;novv  that  you  might 
drop  down  and  die  in  dieir  mid  ,t  and  not  one  to  give  you  a  sec- 
ond thought.  (;h  !j'f«  cai.noi  realize  (his.  It  was  the  most 
absolutely  wretched  lime  of  my  life ;  but  in  S)<kt-  of  iliat  1  grew 
stroui.';  and  hearty,  and  llie  old  (Question  r-.-e  up — what  should  I 
do?  Five  thousand  dollars  would  not  last  forever.  1  must 
e^rn  my  own  living. 

"My  first  thought,  one  that  I  found  hard  to  give  up,  was  of 
i''  e  ?tag:\  If  I  had  capabilities  fn  anything,  if  I  had  a  vocation 
in  life,  that  was  it.  I  was  an  excellent  elocutionist  already, 
thanks  to  long  training  and  natural  taste  ;  I  had  a  tall  and  good 
figure,  a  passable  face,  a  head  of  :.,^ood  hair  below  my  waist, 
and  two  black  eyes.  I  took  stock  of  myself  as  any  manager 
might  ai)i)raise  me  ;  1  had  a  flexible  voice;  1  could  dance,  sing, 
s|)eak  French,  and  wouUl  never  know  the  meaning  of  stage 
fright.  I  had  money  enough  to  live  upon  until  the  initiative  train- 
ing was  comi)lcte.  I  felt  certain  of  success  if  1  tried,  and  still— 
aiul  still  1  hesitated.  I  had  outraged  my  husband,  driven  him 
from  me,  and  now  that  I  had  lost  him,  I  did  what  I  never  had  done 
before  in  my  life — stopped  to  think  whether  or  no  he  would  have 
ai)i)iovedof  my  imi)ulses.  Easy  as  you  may  have  thought  him, 
free  from  itrejudices,  he  yet  had  very  strong  pride  and  prejudices 
about  certain  things.  One  of  these  was  the  stage,  for  me.  He 
had  vetoed  it  ever  hince  I  had  known  liim.  'It's  no  place  for 
you,  Heauty,  he  would  say,  'with  your  gunpowder  temper,  and 
pe[)pery   pride,    and   overbearing    little   ways   generally.     You 


TEDDY. 


353 


wou  (1  come  to  grief  m  the  grcen-roon,  in  a  week.  Besides  the 
heatre's  well  enough  for  those  UkU  nn.st  go  i,.  for  that  ort  f 
l^.ng;  so,n.of   the  u-o..en   a.e   tmu^.s,  t^ake  ' en    a  ,  hTvo 

like;  but  u's  not  the  pkice  for  you,  Hcauty;   I   never  want   to 

see  your  face  behind  the  footlights." 

iHs  sub  cct  than  he  could  express.     And  f,  who  had  never   ac 
knowledged  an)    ,v,Il  but  my  own  heretofore,  now  ?hat  he  and  I 
were  parted  forever,  obeyed  his  wishes,   gave   n         y   one    1 
b-.:on   an<   resolve<I  that  n.y  life  for  the' future      oi  iTbe  one  of 

fulness  had  been  poured  in  at  kast  ''''"'''"^''   J">'- 

look  fo;'[aboT''rhf  ,T  ^t^'^  ^^''■''^'  ^  ^^^   "^>'^^>f  r-ol"teIy  to 

housanc  '  ol hrs  s  ; ;  I.ur  '"  ^"^""'.'^'^^-^'ly  ^'^^^^  ^  '^^^^^  nearly  four 
uii;,an(i  UOU.US  still,  but  I  was  growiiiji  ni-r.'ardlv  for  bqJ.v'/^-.L-,. 

and  must  ke.p  that  for  hin,.     1  adve.  t.^cl  tnS  ^  1^  ^  s^tS 

""u  piew,  ana  i  wasnai)i)v.  Svdnev   t;   1^^1M^,^  o..  i         i  i  i      • 
this    world   afr-iin       A^    L  .     -1      ^'    \       '  ^^  ^^  ^  '^^"^^  ^*^  ^ 

ness      VV^-fh  n,-    ,     "Vj         '     "'  '"iisic,  and  singing   raver- 

babv  in  du.  .,h  .  i  ''^"-^V^^-,    ^^  course  1  could  not   keep   my 
and  I      .?.       ^     ^''''  position.     Jlut  this  would   have  been  follu 
a  seven-months  bnv  c^^  uZ  '  " '^^'.,^.>^""& '"'^''^icd  woman,  with 


'  !  ;' 


i  I 


hi 


It 


Hi 


354 


TEDDY. 


have  plenty  of  frosli  milk.  And  she  has  been  the  best  and  most 
tcndor  of  nurses  to  my  boy ;  he  has  been  with  Mrs.  Martin 
ever  since." 

Cyrilla  i)aused,  as  if  her  story  liad  come  to  an  end,  and  look- 
ed with  tender  eyes  at  her  hltle  son. 

"Who  is  he  hke,  Sydney?"  she  wistfully  asked. 

'•  lake  IVed  Carew,  with  CyrlUa  I lendrick's  black  eyes.  My 
own  (Uar  C)',  how  lonely  and  miserable  you  must  have  been 
all  these  years — liow  much  you  have  suffered  since  we  met  last." 

"  1  have  wrought  my  own  destruction,  Sydney — I  deserve  no 
l)ity.  I  can  only  think  that  1  have  wrecked  /lis  life,  and  hate 
myself  for  it." 

"  You  have  licard  nothing  from  him  all  those  years  ?" 

"  Nothing  of  him  or  from  him  :  1  never  expect  to — I  do  not 
even  wish  it." 

"Not  wish  it?" 

"No— we  could  never  be  happy  together;  he  could  never 
trust  me,  he  could  have  nothing  but  contempt  for  the  wife  who 
so  basely  denied  him.  Jf  he  took  me  back  at  all,  it  would  be 
through  i)ity,  and  I  would  rather  be  as  1  am  than  that." 

"  Ah  !  Cy,  the  old  pride  is  not  dead  yet.  If  it  were  my  case, 
I  Uiink  1  wouUl  onl)'  be  too  glad  to  be  taken  back  on  any 
terms.  It  is  strange  to  me  that  Mr.  Carew  has  not  sought  you 
out.  He  was  so  fond  of  you,  Cyiilla,  1  can't  understand  his 
resigning  you  wholly  tor  one  fLiult ;  love  forgives  everything." 

"  Not  such  a  sin  as  mine  ;  and  Fred,  slow  to  anger,  is  also 
slow  to  forgive.  Don't  let  us  talk  about  it.  I  am  resigned,  or 
try  to  be.  I  Jut  to  go  on — I  have  to  think  of  the  future,  not 
the  past." 

"  And  all  of  these  years  you  have  been  a  governess  in  a  school. 
Wliat  a  destiny  for  you,  my  brilliant  Cyrilla  1 " 

Cyrilla  half  laughed. 

"  Do  you  remember  Aunt  Phil's  cheerful  prediction,  crocked 
out  so  often  ?  '  Mark  my  words,  my  niece  Cyrilla  will  come  to 
no  good  end.'  She  was  a  true  prophetess,  was  she  not?  And 
it  docs  not  lighten  labor,  or  cheer  the  monotony,  to  feel  that  I 
iOWe  it  all  to  myself.  \Vell,  1  ought  to  be  thankful  in  the  main, 
'j  suppose.  I  have  Teddy,  a  respectable  home  and  profession, 
tluy  are  all  kind  and  friendly,  and  1  save  money  for  a  rainy 
•jay.     It  is  better  fortune  than  '  deserve." 

"You  are  greatly  clianged,  Cy  ;  this  sad,  re-igned  manner  IS 
not  nuich  like  the  bright,  ambitious  Cyrilla  llendrick  of  Petite 
M.  Jacques.     What  shuttlecocks  of  fortune  we  all  are  I " 


;i 


t  and  most 
rs.   Mailin 

,  and  look- 


cye.s.  My 
liave  been 
:  met  last." 
deserve  no 
and  hate 

J?" 

— I  do  not 


3uld  never 
e  wife  wlio 
would  be 
at." 

c  my  case, 
ck  on  any 
sought  you 
irstand  his 
lything." 
;er,  is  also 
esigned,  or 
future,  not 

in  a  school. 


m,  crocked 
'ill  come  to 
not  ?  And 
feel  that  I 
1  tile  main, 
profession, 
for  a  rainy 

1  manner  is 
Ic  of  Petite 


TEDDY. 


355 


. 


re 


I" 


**  Life's  battledore  has  hit  yon  gently,  Syd  ;  I  never  thought 
(that  you  would  grow  half  so  lovely.  Can  you  inuigine  why 
1  have  souglit  you  out  at  last  ?  " 

*'  Remorse  of  conscience  at  having  neglected  me  so  long,  I 
should  hope." 

"  1  am  afraid  not.  1  have  come  to  remind  you  of  a  proniise 
— made  fust  in  school,  afterward  in  your  old  home  ;  a  promise 
that  if  ever  I  stood  in  need  of  a  friend,  do  what  1  might,  you 
would  be  that  friend." 

"1  remember,"  Sydney  answered,  with  emotion.  "To  see 
you  and  be  your  friend  is  all  that  has  been  wanting,  since  my 
marriage,  to  make  my  hapi)iness  complete.  What  is  it,  Cy- 
rilla?" 

"  That  you  will  take  my  boy  and  kei.^p  him  for  me  until  1  can 
claim  him.  Mrs.  Martin  and  her  husl)and  are  going  to  (lalves- 
ton,  and  Teddy  will  lose  his  home.  To  give  him  to  strangers 
1  cannot  endure  ;  but  if  you  will  take  him,  Sydney " 

Sydney's  answer  is  the  delighted  hug  she  inllicts  on  Master 
Teddy. 

'•  Oh,  Cy  !  how  good  you  are  to  think  of  nie.  I  love  chil- 
dren ;  do  1  need  to  tell  you  that  1  love  yours  above  all  ?  My 
pet,  kiss  Auntie  Sydney  !  1  am  going  to  be  yourmanuua,  now. 
You  will  stay  with  me  Teddy,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Does  you  have  Johnny-cake  for  tea  ?  "  asked  Teddy,  cau- 
tiously, before  conunitting  himself  to  rash  promises.  "'Cause 
if  you  hasn't  1  won't." 

"  Johnny-cake,  ])ound-cake,  jelly,  oranges,  candies,  ice-cream 
—  everything  1"  says  Auntie  Sydney,  magnificently. 

"  Sen  I'll  stay  with  you,"  says  Teddy,  manifesting  no  emo- 
tion of  any  kind.  "  1  likes  oranges,  and  candy,  and  ice-cream. 
Does  you  keep  a  cow  ?  " 

"  Not  a  cow,  Teddy,  but  I  think  we  might  get  one  if  you 
wish  it  very  much.     And  a  pony — can  you  ride  a  pony,  !'.d  ?  " 

"  1  can  wide  a  wockin'  hoss,"  answers  Teddy^  roubing  to 
enthusiasm  at  last.  "  1  can  make  him  gee  ujj,  bully,  like  every- 
sing  ! " 

"  Tlien  consider  yourself  master  of  a  wockin'-hoss  and  a  cow, 
and  oranges  unlimited.  Oh  !  Cyrilla,  why  cannot  you  stay  as 
well  as  Teddy,  and  make  your  home  with  me  ?  1  would  be  so 
happy " 

"  And  Mr.  Nolan  also,  no  doubt,"  says  Cyrilla,  smiling;  "men 
are  so  fond  of  having  their  wives'  bosom  friends  domiciled  with 
them.     No,  thank  you,  Syd  ;  1  have  my  life  work  to  do,  and 


4     ■: 
"     1 

\ 

* 

356  r/:nD  v. 

will  do  it.     You  have  made  tne  umillerably  grateful  by  taking 

'I'ed." 

"  You  will  miss  him  dreadfully,  Cy." 

«'  Natmallv,  but  it  must  be  done.  I  look  forward  to  a  tune, 
afi'W  years  iience,  when  I  will  have  a  home  of  my  own,  howi  vet 
humble,  where  my  pupils  may  come  to  me.  And  now  tell  me 
about  yourself,  dear;  i  have  selfishly  monopolized  the  tunc 
with  my  talking." 

"VVh.t  '^u'U  I  tell?"  Sydney  answers  with  a  radiant  l<)ok. 
"  In  a  li-'Vi-py  v,  OS  history  thrre  is  no  romance.  It  is  only  lilc's 
surnnv;.  >>.'  --itferings  that  make  interesting  stories.  No,  there 
is  nothing  to   tell.     I  am  married  and  happy— all  is  said  in 

that." 

'•  1  have  never  seen  your  husband.     What  is  he  like?      Tall, 

short,  dark,  fair — which  ?  " 

"  1  will  show  you  his  nh'^fograph.  I  have  a  score,  more  or 
U'ss,  about  the  h-v..,.;.  Oii,  .lark  .-'•  course,  but  it  is  useless  to 
ask  me  what  he  is  like.  /  don't  know.  It  is  months  since  1 
ceased  to  see  him — as  he  is." 

She  laughingly  produces  two  or  three  large-sized  photographs, 
taken  in  ditferent  attitudes.     Cyri'la  examines  them  Uiought- 

fuUy.  ,  ,       ,     •     •     , 

u  is_is   Mr.    Nolan    handsome  ? "  she    asks,    hesitatingly. 

"  These  things  are  such  caricatures  sometimes," 

"  Handsome  ?  "  repeats  Mr.  Nolan's  wif',  still  laughing  ;  "  is 
he  not  ?  1  am  sure  1  do  not  know.  I  see  only  an  idealized 
Lewis,  with  a  countenance  like  a  king,  whom  nobody  else,  not 
the  real  Lewis  him  elf  perhaps,  would  recognize.  1  only  saw 
him  once  as  others  see  him,  and  then  i  recoMect  1  fancied  '  un 
rather  plain.  Need  I  say  it  would  be  rank  heresy  to  call  hua 
plain  in  my  presence  now  ?" 

C)rilla  laughs  in  answer,  but  she  also  sighs. 
"  Hai)py  Sydney  !     U  is  a  face  one  likes,  strong  .     1  intellec- 
tual ;  better  still,  the  face  of  a  uood  man.     Giv<'  me  one,  and 
one  of  your  own;  it  will  be  \)\va   mt  to  have  them  in  my  room." 
"  And  so  you  will  not  slay  ?" 

«*  Not  another  moment,  i  >.  o,  Sydney,  do  not  entreat,  please  ; 
it  v,'as  diitu  ult  to  et  off— a  great  favo..  and  I  am  bound  by 
promise  to  make  1.  delay  in  New  York.  1  shall  start  again  in 
an  hour." 

"  V:\\t  you  will  wait  and  see  my  husband  ?"     Sydney  cries, 

aghast.  .       .         ,      , , , 

"  Not  even  that  will  tempt  me.     A  nromise given  should  be  a 


fill  by  taking 


1(1  to  a  til  IK*, 
>wn,  howv  vv;i 
.  now  tell  ine 

L'd     tllC     tilllL.' 

radiant  look. 
t  is  only  life's 
;.  No,  tile  re 
ill  is  said  in 

like?      Tall, 

:ore,  more  or 

is  useless  to 

ontlis  since  I 


AT  THE  PLAY  AX  n  AFTER. 


357 


poinise  kept.     I  must  go  this  very  inst.' 
IS  giiiny  ;  what  have  you  got  to  say  ?  " 


nstant.     'I'eddv,  mamma 


Dooil  i)y,"  says  t'lis  young  philosopher,  his  two  little  paws 
in  his  two  little  po(  i  .  a. id  not  moving  a  muscle.  Cyrilla's 
lips(|iiiv'jr  as  she  cl.         Lim  and  kisses  him. 

"  Teddy  will  be  u  ^ood  boy,  and  not  make  Auntie  .Sydney 
any  trouble  ?  " 

'*  Yes,  I  '11  be  dood  when  I  gets  de  wockin  hoss,"  Teddy  re- 
pfii-s,  still  carefid  not  to  commit  himself.  He  accepts  rather 
than  returns  his  mother's  caresses,  and  sees  her  dejiart  without 
winking  once.  Of  a  phlegmatic  and  unemotional  nature,  evi- 
denlly,  is  I'rederic  Carew,  junior. 

.So  Cyrillagoes,  and  Sydney  loads  Master  Ted  up  t<  her  own 
room,  feeling  as  if  in  a  dream,  feeling  also  that  the  la  drc,)  of 
content  has  been  added  to  her  cup,  and  that  one  other  will  make 
it  brim  over  with  bliss. 


l)hotograplis, 
lem  ihought- 

hesitatiu'dv. 


aughing  ;  "  is 
/  an  idealized 
body  else,  not 
;.  1  only  saw 
1  fancied  '  im 
sy  to  call  hiiii 


y  u  \  intellec- 
e  me  one,  and 
11  in  my  room." 

ntrrat,  please  ; 

ain  bound  by 

1  start  again  in 

Sydney  cries, 

/en  should  be  a 


CHAPTER  XHI. 


AT   THK    l'I,AY   AND    AFTKR. 

|HE  first  week  of  October,  there  was  brought  out  at  a 
fashionable  I'.roadway  theatre,  a  new  play  by  an  old 
actor  and  dramatist.  The  new  piece,  like  airthe  U'-w 
pieces  by  this  popular  playwright,  was  stolen  boddy 
from  the  French— so  all  the  other  players  and  playwrights  said  at 
least — die  misc  en  scene  changed  from  Paris  to  New  Yor!  .  The 
little  three  act  comedy,  sparkling  with  epigrams,  peppered  with 
satne,  rich  with  old  jokes  juicily  done  over,  'M\(\  as  full  of  capital 
situations  as  a  pudding  of  plums,  was  an  iiuiii.nse  success. 
Whatever  cari)ing  critics  might  say,  the  good-natured  public 
were  disposed  to  forgive  many  sins  to  the  dramatist  because  lie 
charmed  imu:h.  The  great  man  iiimself,  just  over  fi  om  luirope, 
was  play  the  principal  part,  a  fascinating  old  serving  iiiaii  ; 

e  scenery  and  effects  were  exceptionally  fine,  and  the  music — 
but  everybody  knows  what  the  orchestra  of  thai  theatre  is  like. 
The  house  was  filled  half  an  hour  before  the  rising  of  tlie  cm-- 
tam,  and  packed  at  a  cpiarter  to  eight.  At  eight,  there  wa  )t 
standing  room— pi'ople  had  secure^  Jieir ''s -ats  a  fortniLdit 
ahead.     A  brilliant  assemblage  was  therr   •       women  beauti- 


358 


AT   THE  PLAY  AND  AFTER. 


\     w 


■  1 ; 

i 

■ 

1/  . 


fill,  with  that  rare,  delicate  l)eauty  of  America,  to  be  surpassed 
nowlioro  in  the  world,  and  the  ciutain  arose  before  one  ot  llie 
most  tashionahle  amliences  the  city  could  show. 

In  one  of  the  stage  boxes  sat  a  lady  who  had  attracted  con- 
siderable  attention  before  the  rising  of  the  curtam.  I  his  lady, 
tall,  blonde,  beautiful,  very  simply  ilressed,  attracted,  for  a  lew 
mon)ents,  a  steady  tire  of  lorgnettes,  and  was  Mrs.  I.ewis 
Nolan.  Anotlu-r  lady,  a  dashing  brunette,  much  more  brightly 
arrayed,  and  wearing  coral  ornaments,  wis  Miss  Katie  Mac 
cregor.  15ehind  hiswife  sat  Mr.  Nolan,  partly  screened  by  her 
chair,  surveying  the  house  with  a  look  of  amusement  at  the  at 
tention  he  and  his  party  were  receiving.  The  young  ladies  sal 
in  full  vi  X,  with  tiiat  inimitable  air  of  utter  unconsciousness 
which  comes  so  naturally  to  women. 

Presently  the  orchestra  burst  forth  m  full  blast  with  a  grand 
march,  and  Mr.  Nolan  for  whom  music  had  charms,  icsigm-cl 
liimsclf  to  listening  and  wiuling  for  the  rise  of  the  curtain.  Just 
then  Mrs.  Nolan,  perusing  her  bill,  uttered  a  httle  exclama- 

tion.  . ,         ,  ^  „ 

"Well,  Sydney,"  her  husband  said,  "  what  now  ? 
She  glanced  back  at  him,  a  startled  expression  m  her  eyes. 
"  It  "is  a  name  here  in  the  play-bill  -a  name  that  1  have  seen 

'''"  Nothing  very  startling  in  that,  I  should  say.  The  names 
(,n  your  pLu-bill,  one  and  all,  should  be  tolerably  familiar  by 
this  lime.     Let  me  see."  . 

She-  hands  him  the  play-bill,  and  points  to  a  name  near  the 
end  of  the  list.      He  looks,  and  reads  Dolly  De  Courcy. 

11  has  startled  Sydney.  In  one  instant  the  scene  changes, 
and  it  is  a  stormy  November  night,  and  she  and  mamma,  C)rilla 
and  Hertie,  are  seated  in  the  primitive  play-house,  wailing  lor 
1  .adv  Teazle.  Five  years  ago  only,  and  what  grt-at  and  sadden- 
ini:  changes.  I'apa  and  mamma  dead,  lierlie  murdered,  L^ynila 
worse  than  widowed,  she  alone  of  ihem  all  happy,  and  here,  and 
a-ain  to  see  Dolly  De  Courcy.  She  had  been  happy  then  m  a 
ditferent  way.  Yes,  positively  happy,  although  she  had  n-.t 
known  such  a  being  as  Lewis  Nolan  existed  on  earth.  How 
impossible  to  conceive  of  any  happiness  now  where  he  was  not 
the  central  figure.  She  leans  back  and  glances  up  at  him,  a 
smile  in  the  lovely  eyes,  and  holds  out  her  hand  lor  the  paper. 

'•Are  you  committing  it  to   memory,  monseigneiir  ?      ine 
curtain  is  rising — my  bill,  please."  ,  •,       ,  , 

The  gravity  that  luis  left  her  face  seems  to  have  found  its  wa) 


AT  Tin:  PLAY  AND  AFTER. 


359 


3  be  surpassed 
ore  one  of  tlie 

attracted  con- 
n.  This  lady, 
::tcd,  for  a  few 
s  Mr-^.  Lewis 
I  more  brightly 
ss  Katie  Mac- 
cri-ened  by  her 
meiit  at  the  at 
oiing  ladies  sal 
iiconsciousness 

st  with  a  grand 

\arnis,  icsigm-d 

,' curtain.     Just 

little  exclaina- 

w?" 

n  in  her  eyes. 

Kit  1  have  seen 

y.     The  names 
ibly  familiar  by 

,  name  near  the 

Courcy." 

scene  changes, 
mannna,  Cyrilla 
luse,  waiting  for 
t!at  and  sadden- 
lurdered,  Cyrilla 
y,  and  here,  and 
ha|)py  then  in  a 
^h  she  had  not 
on  earth.      How 

here  he  was  not 
;es  up  at  him,  a 
1  for  the  paper, 
seigneur  ?      The 

Lve  found  its  way 


He  hands  her  back  the  paper  with   no  answering 

he  in(|uires. 


into  his 

smile. 

'•  Where  did  you  ever  see  this  name  before  ? 
*•  It  is  her  first  appearance  here." 

"I  saw  her  over  live  years  ;/go  at  a  theatre  in  Wychcliffe." 

"It  is  odd  you  should  remember  the  name  so  well  after  so 
many  years." 

"It  would  be,  under  ordinary  circumstances,"  Sydney  says,  in 
a  low  v(jice,  "but  !  knew  her  muler  rathi-r  extraordinary  ones. 
I  lost  a  very  dear  friend,  and  she  was  at  one  time  supposed  to 
be  associated  with  his  death.  1  will  tell  you  all  about  it  another 
time  -it  is  impossible  here." 

I'or  .S\(lney,  five  months  a  wife,  has  not  yet,  in  any  outburst 
of  connubial  confidence,  told  her  husband  the  story  of  Dolly  Do 
Courcy  and  I'ertie  Vaughan  ;  the  name  of  either,  in  fact,  has 
not  passed  her  lips.  She  has  a  vagrie  theory,  but  men  are 
avi;rse  to  ku(jwing  that  the  woman  they  marry  lias  had  a  former 
lover  and  actually  been  on  the  brink  of  matrimony  with  another 
man.  And  the  slightest  thing  that  can  annoy  Lewis  she  avoids. 
It  is  an  exi:eediugly  painfiil  subject  e\en  at  this  distant  dati-,  a 
black  cloud  of  the  past,  that  will  only  needlessly  darken  the 
sunlight  of  the  present.  Uesides,  they  make  a  compact  before 
marriage  to  let  the  dead  past  stay  dead  on  both  sides.  She  has 
told  him  she  was  once  ei. gaged  :  he  that  he  was  once  befoie  iii 
love— disagreeable  facts  both,  best  forgotten. 

The  play  goes  on— it  is  very  biight  and  witty,  and  Sydney 
The  nuisic  is  fine,  the  scenery  and  costumes  jjertec- 
tion.  It  is  a  drawing-room  comedy,  one  of  the  Charles  Mathews' 
sort,  in  which  peopU-  <:ccin  to  behave  themselves  as  they  might  in 
their  own  drawing-rooms  at  home — only  such  badinage,  such  re- 
l)artee,  such  smart  epigrams,  such  Hashes  of  wit  and  wisdom, 
unhappily  one  rarely  hears  in  the  conversations  of  every-day 
'''"■       Mrs.  Nolan,  lying   back   in  ht;r  chair  and  enjoying  it  im 


lauglis 


hf 


mensely,  forgets  all  about  Dolly  Dc  C  nircy  and  the  memories 
the  name  brings,  and  at  every  telling  hit  glances  back  at  her 
husband  to  see  how  he  takes  it.  He  takes  it  all  rather  absently, 
Sydney  thinks,  his  very  answering  smiles  are  distrait ;  thinking 
of  his  eternal  (if  she  had  been  a  man  she  would  have  thought 
infernal)  law  business,  she  thinks,  half-impatiently.  Hut  it  is 
not  of  law  business  Nolan  is  musing,  for  when  the  curtain 
falls  he  leans  over  his  wife  and  resumes  tiie  subject  of  the 
actress. 

"  You  have  made  me  rather  curious,  Sydney,"  he  says,  "by 


360 


AT  THE  PLAY  Ah' n  AFTEK. 


your  remark.     How  was  it  jiossihlo  for  this  actress  to  be  in  any 
way  associated  wilh  the  death  of  any  friend  of  yours  ?  " 

"She  was  susi)ected  at  one  lime  of— having  killed  him," 
Sydney  an^vcrs,  in  a  nervous  tone.  "Don't  let  us  talk  of  it, 
Lewis,  i)lease— at  least  not  here." 

"One  more  question  :  What  was  your  friend's  name?" 

There  is  something  more  than  mere  curiosity  in  the  young 
lawyer's  face,  as  he  i)uts  this  question,  but  that  face,  in  which 
Sydney's  eyes  can  read  all  changes,  slie  cannot  see  as  she  sits. 

"Are  you  trying  to  get  up  a  case  at  tin's  late    day?    His 

name  was "  she  pauses  a  second,  with  the  strangest  feeling 

of  re[>ugnance  to  uttering  it — "]5ertie  Vaughan." 

"Sydney,"  exclaims  Katie,  leaning  forward,  "here  comes 
Mr.  Vanderdonck.  1  thought  he  would  run  us  down  before 
the  evening  ended." 

Her  venerable  lover  enters  as  she  speaks,  makes  his  bow  to 
the  ladies,  and  accepts  a  seat  beside  his  betrothed. 

Another  gentleman,  a  poet  and  journalist  of  half  a  century, 
with  a  snowy  beard  and  a  dreamy  brow,  a  i>rofessed  admirer  of 
beautiful  Afrs.  Nolan,  follows,  and  takes  a  seat  for  the  remain- 
der of  the  performance  by  her  side. 

Conversation  becomes  general ;  but  Sydney  notices  that 
although  her  husband  drops  a  remark  now  and  then,  and  so 
avoids  notice,  he  is  singularly  silent,  and  that  a  sort  of  grayish 
pallor  has  come  over  his  face. 

"  You're  not  looking  well,  Nolan  ;  upon  my  life,  vou're  not," 
remarks  Mr.  Vanderdonck.  "Don't  overwork  yourself  among 
the  big  books,  my  boy.  Distinction  will  come  soon  enought 
It  never  pays  to  burn  the  candle  of  life  at  both  ends." 

The  curtain  rises  again,  and  a  cocpiettish  chambermaid  is 
discovered  dusting  the  furniture,  and  talking  to  herself,  as  is  the 
way  of  chambermaids— on  the  stage — singing  between  whiles 
snatches  of  popular  songs,  in  a  very^iice  voice.  Tlie  chamber- 
inaid  ih  Dolly  De  Courcy.  Sydney  looks  at  her  with  interest. 
So  far  as  she  can  see,  years  have  made  no  change  in  her.  She 
wears  her  own  abundant  black  hair  under  a  natty  cap  ;  and  the 
plump  ligure,  she  can  recall,  is  as  rounded  and  rii)e  as  ever. 
Va\\.  to  Sydney  the  face  is  repulsively  bold,  the  high  color  coarse, 
the  manner  brazen. 

Presently,  as  she  dusts  and  sings,  and  vivaciously  says  her 
lines,  she  approaches  their  box,  glances  up,  and  stares  full  at 
Sydney.  The  recognition  is  mutual.  For  the  space  of  five 
seconds  she  stands,  brush  in  hand,  her  song  suspended  ;  then 


AT  THE  PLAY  AND  AFTER. 


361 


ess  to  be  in  any 

■ours  ?  " 

ing  kiik'd  him," 

ct  us  talk  of  i(, 

's  name?" 
:y  in  the   young 
X  face,  in  which 
see  as  she  sits, 
late   day  ?    His 
itrangest  feeling 

,  "here  comes 
IS  down  before 

ikes  his  bow  to 

L'd. 

half  a  century, 
ssed  admirer  of 
for  the  reniain- 

-■y  notices  that 
d  then,  and  so 
sort  of  grayitih 

ife,  you're  not," 
yourself  among 

soon  enough. 
Mids." 

haniberniaid  is 
erself,  as  is  the 
between  whiles 

Tlie  chamber- 
\x  with  inten-st. 
fe  in  her.  She 
k'  cap  ;  and  the 
1  ri[)e  as  ever, 
jh  color  coarse, 

ously  says  her 
d  stares  full  at 
;  space  of  five 
upended  ;  then 


she  recovers  herself,  flashes  a  glance  at  the  others,  and  goes  on 
with  her  little  part.  Other  personages  api)ear,  the  comic  valet 
among  them,  who  make  the  sort  of  love  comic  valets  do  make 
to  singing  chambermaids.  Dolly  does  her  pait  well — if  she  did 
not  she  would  not  be  here  ;  but  through  the  whole  of  it  her 
eyes  are  fixed  every  otiier  instant  on  the  Nolan  box.  Not  on 
Mrs.  Nolan,  but  on  the  face  behind— her  husband's — with  an 
intensity  that  may  be  surprise,  recognition,  dislike — it  is  hard  to 
define  what.  She  takes  so  little  i)ains  to  conceal  at  whom  she 
stares,  that  they  all,  perforce,  notice  it. 

"  Is  that  little  soubrette  an  oldaC(iuaintance  of  yours,  Nolan?" 
inquires  old  Vanderdonck,  with  an  unctuous  chuckle.  •'  She 
doesn't  seem  able  to  take  her  eyes  off  you." 

"  She  does  watch  you,  Lewis,"  says  Sydney,  in  wonder. 

"  1  have  seen  her  before,"  Lewis  answers,  quietly. 

"  To  be  sure  you  have,"  says  old  Vanderdonck.  "  Don't  be 
jealous,  my  dear  Mrs.  Nolan  ;  we  have  all  been  acquainted 
with  pretty  li»tle  actresses  in  our  day." 

"  What  a  horrid  old  man,"  thinks  Mrs.  Nolan,  disgusted. 
"/  jealous  of  Lewis — absurd  I  " 

But  suddenly  there  returns  the  words,  half-spoken  by  Dick 
Macgregor — she  could  hardly  recall  them,  but  something  of  a 
gra/iiie passion  once  entertained  by  Lewis  for  somebody.  Was 
it  for  this  actress,  with  whom  liertie  Vaughan  and  Ben  Ward 
used  to  flirt  ?  Lewis  himself  had  owned  to  a  former  attachment 
—was  it  for  Dolly  De  Courcy  ?  It  seemed  odd,  indeed,  if 
Dolly  could  twice  cross  her  path  as  rival.  She  certainly  did 
'•vatch  him  in  a  very  marked  manner. 

During  that  act  and  the  next,  the  chambermaid  was  off  and 
on  in  several  of  the  scenes.  Perhaps  none  in  the  house  paid  as 
much  attention  to  the  dashing  little  cocpiette  as  the  party  in 
that  particular  box.  Mrs.  Nolan  looked  and  listened  to  her 
with  a  growing,  and,  very  likely,  unjust  sensation  of  dislike. 
She  tvas  coarse,  bold,  vulgar ;  what  could  men  see  in  her  ? 
what  could  I,ewis,  whose  every  instinct  was  fastidious  and 
refined,  see  to  attract  him  in  a  creature  like  this  ?  In  the  an- 
.loyance  of  the  bare  thought,  gentle  Sydney  absolutely  called 
poor  Dolly  a  creature,  than  which  there  exists  no  word  of  more 
bitter  coiuempt  from  one  woman  to  another. 

The   i)lay  ended   d-.-ligb.ifully  ;  everybody  was  dismissed   to 

ha|)|)iness,  the  singing  cliambermaid  atid  comic  valet  among  the 

rest,  and  even  the  critics  to  whom  gall  and  bitterness  are  the 

>vines  of  life,  went  home  and  only  mildly  abused  it,     The   two 

16 


362 


AT  THE  PLAY  AND  AFTER. 


W  ! 


ill 


gentlemen  made  their  adieus  ;  Miss  Macgregor  went  to  Madison 
Avenue,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Nolan  entered  their  carriage,  and 
were  ch'iven  home. 

It  was  an  exiiuisite  October  night,  moonlight,  mild,  even  the 
streets  of  New  York  looked  ])Oetical  under  the  crystal  rays. 
It  was  still  early,  the  city  clocks  were  only  striking  eleven  as 
they  crossed  their  own  threshold. 

"I  nuist  run  and  have  a  peep  at  my  boy,"  says  Madame 
Sydney,  tripi)ing  away, 

in  the  last  month  she  has  become  the  abject  slave  and  adorer 
of  Master  Teddy,  spoiling  him  as  thoroiiglily  and  completely 
as  any  doting  manuna.  With  the  tine  discrimination  of  his  years 
and  sex,  Teddy,  on  the  other  hand,  is  loftily  indifferent  to  all 
Auntie  Sydney's  kisses  and  caresses,  and  has  bestowed  his 
juvenile  heart  on  Uncle  Lewis,  at  the  first  sound  of  whose  foot- 
step he  precipitates  himself  down  the  stairs  and  into  his  legal 
coat  sleeves  wilh  jubilant  shrieks  of  welcome, 

Ted  is  in  his  crib  asleep,  rosy,  plump,  lovely,  a  very  cherub 
in  outward  seeming — alas  !  in  outward  seeming  only,  as  his  vic- 
timized nurse  but  too  well  knew.  Slie  kisses  him,  throws  off 
her  wraps,  and  hastens  to  the  apartment  where  she  is  i)retty  sure 
of  fnuling  her  husband— a  little  gem  f)f  a  room  that  is  called  the 
master's  study  by  the  household,  and  where  he  answers  letters, 
etc.,  that  he  does  not  fmd  time  for  during  the  day.  He  is  there 
now,  the  gas  is  lit  over  the  green  table,  but  tiuiied  down  to  one 
minute  point.  It  is  the  moonlight  streaming  between  the  cur- 
tains that  lights  the  room,  and  Mr.  Nolan  sits  near  one  of  the 
windows  ga/ing  out. 

"  (Jh  !  wise  young  judge  I  of  what  is  your  honor  dreaming  ?  " 
his  wife  exclaims,  standing  behiml  him  and  clasping  her  fuigers 
across  his  breast.  "  To-morrow's  business,  I  am  certain.  VVho- 
ever  heard  of  a  lawyer  looking  at  the  moon  ?  " 

Nolan  smiles. 

"  1  was  neither  thinking  of  to-morrow's  business  nor  of  the 
moon.  I  was  thinking — will  you  wonder  ? — of  the  strangeness 
of  your  knowing  Dolly  I)e  Courcy." 

'"'■You  know  her,  Lewis." 

It  is  not  a  (piestion,  it  is  an  assertion,  and  as  such  he  answers  : 

''  Yes,  well — too  well,  years  ago.  lint  this  I'.ertie  V^aughan  " 
(how  pat  he  has  the  n.an.iCj  Sydney  thinks)  "  what  iViend  of  yours 
was  he  ? 

She  perches  herself  lightly  on  his  knee,  and  lays  her  pretty 
goUlen  head  against  his  shoulder. 


AT  THE  FLAY  AND  AFTER. 


Z(^2, 


« 


Lewis,"  she  says,  caressingly,  «'  you  will  not  care,  will  you  ? 
You  will  not  inind.     He  was  the  person  I  was  to  marry." 
_    'I"iiere  is  a  pause.     'J'he  sliadow  of  the  curtain  throws  that 
immobile  expression  over  her  husband's  foce,  perhaps,  but  in 
the  half  light  it  looks  as  if  it  were  cut  in  stone. 
"  Tell  me  about  it,  Sydney,"  he  says. 

"  1  would  have  told  you  long  ago,  Lewis— I  often  wished  to 
—but  1  was  afraid  it  might  pain  you  ever  so  little,  dear,  to  know 
that  once  before  my  wedding-day  was  named,  my  wedding  dress 
on,  and  that  1  was  ready  and  waiting  to  become  the  wife  of 
another  man.  I  was  only  fond  of  him  as  a  brother,  Lewis,  but 
still,  to  please  my  father,  I  would  have  married  him." 

And  then,  her  arm  around  his  neck,  her  hand  on  his  shoulder 
she  tells  him  all   that  strange,  tragical  story  of  the  past— the 
mystery  still  unravelled  of  that  night. 

"  Whoever  killed  Bertie,  if  he  were  killed,  committed  a  double 
mure  er,  for  he  killed  papa  as  well.  But  I  cannot  think  he  was 
niuR  ered  ;  he  had  no  enemies,  poor  ik-rtie,  and  what  motive 
could  any  one  have  for  so  dreadful  a  deed  ?  It  has  changed  my 
who  e  life— It  brought  on  papa's  death,  as  I  say;  it  broke  up 
our  home.  Papa  certainly  believed  he  had  been  thrown  over 
the  chff,  and  on  his  death-bed,  Lewis,  made  n.e  promise  to  hxwy 
tiie  assassin  to  justice,  if  it  ever  was  in  my  power.  I  i)romise(i; 
and  that  promise  troubles  me  sometimes,  for  1  do  nothin<r  of 
course,  to  discover  the  guilty  person.  If  i)ai)a  had  livJd'  he 
would  never  have  given  uj)  until  he  had  done  it." 

"  iUit  if  you  ever  do  meet  him  "—how  hollow  a  sound  has 
Lewis  Nolan's  voice— "you  will  keep  that  promise— you  will 
deliver  up  this  murderer  of  Bertie  Vaughan  !  " 

"  Lewis  I  how  hoarse  you  are  !  "  .She^  lifts  her  lead,  but  she 
can  only  see  the  rigid  outline  of  his  face. 

"Well— what  else  can  I  do  ?  My  promise  to  my  father 
binds  me,  and  it  would  be  only  just.  Still  it  would  be  a  very 
(Ireadfu  thing  to  have  to  do.  I  hope  I  never  may  find  him— 
It  would  be  hard  indeed  to  let  him  go  unpunished.  Do  you 
remember,  Lewis,  how  deei)ly  1  felt  about  Mrs.  Harland,  how 
nuhgnant  1  was  with  you  for  defending  her?  Well,  1  was  not 
ihinkmg  of  her  at  all,  but  of  poor  Bertie  ;  thinking  how  1  would 
ablior  the  lawyer  who  would  stand  up  and  defend  his  assassin." 

•  "•-■•■-  uiiu-.vii  uvcj  t.:.e  cuit,  as  nar;and  was  :,iiui, 

m  a  moment  of  reckless  passion  ?" 

"Even  so.  To  give  way  to  reckless  passion  is  in  itself  a 
Bin— how  can  a  lesser  crime  stand  as  excuse  (or  a  greater  ?  " 


■» 

f 

i 

If!  f  1 


364 


AT   THE  PLAY  AND    AFTER. 


What  right  has  any  one  to  give  way  to  reckless  passion  and  lift 
his  hand  against  his  brotlicr's  Hfc,  taking  that  gift  which  God 
gave,  and  which  all  the  power  of  earth  caimot  restore?  " 

"  Yon  are  quite  right,  Sydney.  If  ever  you  find  Uie  man  who 
killed  Bertie  Vaughan,  you  will  be  fully  justified  in  giving  him 
up  to  the  i)unishment  he  has  so  richly  earned." 

"  You  think  he  was  killed,  then  ?  " 

"  I  thiiik  so." 

She  remains  stiK,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  glory  of  moonlight  on 
earth  and  sky,  her  mind  vaguely  troubled. 

"  1  hope  I  may  never  meet  him,"  she  say3.  "  I  do  not  want  to 
be  an  avenger.  I  wish  papa  had  not  made  me  give  that  promise. 
1  believe  1  could  not  keep  it  after  all — it  would  haunt  me  all 
my  life  to  bring  punishment  on  another." 

He  sits  silent.    She  lifts  her  head  and  look.s  at  him  once  more. 

"  Lewis,"  she  says,  uneasily,  "it  has  not  vexed  you,  this  story 
I  have  told,  or  my  keeping  it  from  you  so  long  ?  " 

*'  Vexed  me  ?     You  vex  me,  my  Sydney  ?  " 

Then  he  suddenly  rises  and  gently  puts  her  from  him. 

"  It  is  almost  twelve,  and  time  you  were  asleep.  You  were 
dancing  all  last  night,  remember.    Don't  sit  up  any  longer." 

He  turns  up  the  gas,  floods  the  room  with  light,  and  begins 
assorting  letters  and  papers  on  the  table. 

"  And  you,  Lewis  ?  You  are  going  to  burn  the  midnight 
oil,  as  usual,  I  suppose,  and  have  everybody  telling  you  how 
badly  you  are  looking,  and  that  you  are  working  yourself  to 
death.  People  will  begin  to  think  your  married  life  is  so  miser- 
able that  you  are  wearing  away  to  a  shadow." 

He   smiles,  but  he  does  not  look  at  her. 
"  No  one  will  ever  think  that,  my  princess,  but  I  promise  not 
to  write  long  to-night." 

Mr.  Nolan  has  retained  a  bad  habit  of  answering  a  dozen  or 
more  letters  every  night,  when  he  should  be  virtuously  asleep. 
With  his  countryman,  Tom  Moore,  he  believed  that 

"  The  best  of  all  ways  to  lengthen  your  days 

Is  to  steal  a  few  hours  from  the  nigirt,  my  dear  ;  " 

and  all  expostulations  to  combat  this  vicious  custom  were  fu- 
tile. 

She  lingc-c  a  moment  at  the  door  to  watch  him  as  he  begins 
work,  it  is  a  picture  she  recalls,  with  what  pain  and  bitter- 
ness it  would  be  vain  to  tell,  in  later  days. 

The  co/y  room,  ricli  in    every   cobily  and  elegant  appoint' 


A   VISIT  AND  A  GOLDEN  WEDDING. 


z^i 


nient,  the  vvcll-fillcd  book-cases  surmounted  by  busts  of  emi- 
iient  lawyers  and  statevsnien,  portraits  of  sundry  fathers  of  their 
country,  a  carpet  like  moss,  the  tube  of  gas  pulled  down  to 
the  table,  and  the  rapid  hand  dashing  over  tJie  sheet.  It  is  a 
scene  that  stands  out  vividly  to  the  day  of  her  death. 

He  knows  that  she  is  lingering  there,  but  he  neither  pauses 
nor  looks  round.  Only  when  she  is  gone  the  pen  drops  from 
his  fingers,  and  he  takes  it  up  no  more.  His  elbows  on  the 
table,  his  face  bowed  in  both  hands,  so  he  sits,  heedless  of  time. 
The  mellow  morning  hours  pale  and  pass,  the  little  brown  Eng- 
lish sparrows  in  the  trees  outside  twitter  and  talk  as  the  pink 
dawn  breaks,  and  up-sta;irs  Sydney  lies  asleep,  an  innocent  smile 
on  her  lips.  But  Lewis  has  not  slept,  has  hardly  stined,  the 
night  through. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


[  promise  not 


om  were   fu- 


fant  appoint' 


A   VISIT   AND   A    GOLDEN    WEDDING. 

I VE  days  after  this,  on  Wednesday  the  eleventh  of  Oc- 
tober, an  event  of  very  considerable  imi)ortance  in  cer- 
tain circles  was  to  transpire— the  golden  wedding  cele- 
bration of  the  famous  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ten  Eyck.  Mr. 
Ten  Eyck  (so  let  us  call  him,  although  of  course  we  dare  take 
no  such  liberty  with  his  highly  respectable  name  as  to  introduce 
it  into  these  pages)  is  a  man  whose  invitations,  like  those  of 
royalty,  are  equivalent  to  commands.  No  one  dreams  of  refusing. 
Lewis  Nolan  even,  who  is  indifferent  to  most  invitations,  und 
rarely  cared  lo  court  tavor,  does  not  consider  it  derogatory  to  ac- 
cept promptly  and  with  pleasure  this  card  for  Wednesday  night. 
In  certain  i>oliiical  dreams  which  this  aspiring  young  man  has 
dreamed,  Mr.  Ten  Eyck's  favor  and  patronage  may  be  of  im- 
mense advantage,  for  among  the  rulers  who  sit  at  the  gates  and 
adniuiister  wisdom  and  equity,  his  name  has  been  a  tower  of 
niiglit.     A  mighty  sachem  in  the  wigwams  of  the  pale  faces  ;  an 

,.      .. "'  "'  ^     poi'-.!^-3,  tx  gwvciHui  ui  u  otaic,  owner 

of  a  hne  of  ocean  steamers,  and  whose  millions  no  man   pre- 
sumes lo  count — that  is  Mr.  Ten  Eyck. 

"You  really  will  go  then,    Lewis?"  says  Mrs.  Lewis,  with 


366 


A  VISIT  AND  A  GOLDEN  WEDDING. 


I'i 


!l 


pleasure,  when  tlie  cards  anivcd,  for  Lewis  had  an  adroit  ^^•ay 
of  blippini;  out  of  unsvclcoiuc  invitations  at  the  eleventh  hour. 
*'  1  may  count  upon  you  for  the  j^oUlen  wedduig  ?  "         ,  ,  .    , 

"  Wlio  refuses  Ten  K-yek  ?  Not  1  !  "  laughs  Nolan.  l.ittlc 
men  nuist  bow  down  before  great  ones.  1  expect  to  ask  a  lavor 
or  two  of  the  great  T.  \L  before  very  long."  , 

'I'his  had  parsed  on  the  dav  preceding  the  thealre-gouig,  and 
no  mention  had  been  made  of  the  subject  since  that  night  when 
Mr.  Nolan  had  still  further  recklessly  risked  his  health  by  falling 
asleep  ove!  his  odious  papers,  as  Mrs.  N.  indignantly  found  out. 
He  had  been  more  absent,  more  silent,  more  serious,  more  pre- 
occupied, than  she  had  ever  seen  him  since.  Once  or  twice— 
quite  a  new  thing— he  had  not  come  home  to  dinner,  and  when 
he  did  return,  he  looked  so  haggard,  so  weary,  that  Sydney  was 
growing  ^,eriously  alarmed.  His  was  a  countenance  that  told 
but  little  of  what  was  i)assin!'  within  ;  but  something  more  than 
ordinary,  something  more  than  mere  press  of  business,  was  weigh- 

ing  upon  him  now.  •   n  .,    i 

"  Do  you  still  intend  to  go  to  the  Ten  Kyck's,  Lewis?  she 
asked  on  Wednesday  morning  at  breakfast.  „    ,     , 

She  asked  it  half  timidly,  for  something  m  her  husband  s  looks 
and  manner  of  late  almost  awed  her.  She  was  growmg  bewil- 
dered and  frightened,  poor  child,  by  the  change  m  him  ;  in  spite 
of  her  clinging  aftection  he  seemed  shi)ping  away  from  her ; 
there  were  places  in  his  life,  it  seemed,  and  thoughts  in  his  heart, 
she  could  not  share,  and  her  cup  of  felicity  was  not  ciuite  with- 
out alloy,  at  last. 

"  l.)o  you  still  intend  to  go  ?  "  she  repeats.  "  You  have  ac- 
cepted, you  know."  ,     ,    ,  ,        •., 

He  looks  across  from  the  morning  paper  he  holds,  vvith  eyes 
whose  depth  of  tenderness  she  cannot  doubt,  and  yet  with  some- 
thing beside  she  does  not  understand.  _        ^^ 
"  1  will  go,  Svclncy— 1  shall  not  fail  you  to-night. 
The  answer  is  simple  enough,  surely,  but  somehow  it  inakcs 
Sydney  vaguely  uneasy.     "  1  shall  not  fail  you    to-night.       U 
sounds  oddly  as  though  he  had  added,   "  It  is  for  the  last  time. 
She  looks  wistfully  at  him,  but  he  has  gone  gravely  back  to    us 
paper.      How  worn  that  dear  face  grows !     Oh  I  iM  is  this 
that  is  coming  between  them,  this  dark  vague  cloud  that    has 
neiiher  shape  nor  name?     She  goes  with  hmi  to  the  door,  lin- 
gering beside  him  as  he  puts  on  his  light  overcoat,  stid  si.='nr,  stU! 
wistful,  still  troubled.     Is  it  a  presentunent  that  this  is  the  las.' 
time  slie   will   ever   so  linger  ?     Does  he  leel  it,  too,  or  is  U 


....     ii 


A  VISIT  AND  A  GOLDEN  WEDDING, 


36? 


Lewis?"  she 


'You  have  ac- 


soine   secret   knowledge   that  makes  his  parting  embrace  so 
teiidoi  ? 

"  (iood  bye,  iny  [)rincess,"  he  says,  and  is  gone. 
Slu:  wanders  about  the  house,  tlia»:  vague,  restless  trouble  still 
liauiuing  her.      IV/iat  is  the  matter  with  Lewis — what  secret  has 
he  from    her  ?     Is  he  ceasing  to  love  her  ?     No,  she  does  not 
doubt  that,  whatever  she  doubts.     Has  he  had  trouble  with  M  r. 
Crraliam  ? — losses,    disa[)i)ointments     in    business  ?     Oh,    how 
foolish  to  trouble  about  such  tritles,  and  they  so  rich.     She  tries 
to  read  and  fails  ;  attempts  fancy  work  and  throws  it  aside  in 
disgust  ;  sits  down  to  practise  a  new  song  Lewis  has  brought  her, 
and  fancies  she  can't  sing.     She  goes  to  the  nursery  and  pro- 
po^ics  a  game  of  romps  ;  but  Teddy  is  going  out  in  his  goat-car- 
riage with  his  bonne,  and  loftily  declines.     Shall  she  go  down 
town  and  see  Lucy,  and  so  pass  the  dragging  hours  ?    No,  she  is 
too  listless  to  go  out  of  doors — she  nuist  dawdle  about  as  best  she 
may  until  dinner  hour  brings  Lewis,  and  dressing  time.     An  in- 
tense longing  to  see  him  again  takes  possession  of  her  ;  she  will 
put  her  arms  around  him,  and  beg  him  to  tell  her  the  trouble 
between  them.     Her  entreaties,  her  tears,  he  can  never  resist ; 
whatever  the  cloud  is,  it  shall  be  dispelled.     Why  has  she  not 
thuugiu  of  this  before  ? — how  silly  to  go  on  wondering  and  fret- 
ting wiien  a  few  words  would  have  broken  down  the  barrier  of 
reserve.     So  strong  does  this  longing  grow,  that  once  she  rises 
and  stretches  forth  her  hand  to  "order  the  carriage  and  drive 
down  to  the  office  immediately.     But  she  stops  and  laughs  at 
her  own  iujpatience.     Mr.  Ciraliam  will  be  there,  and  the  clerks  ; 
and  Lewis'  look  of  silent  wonder  and  disapprobation  would  be 
ten  ible.     No,  she  would  wait  until  evening  and  drive  down  for 
him  then. 

"  1  grow  worse  and  worse  every  day,"  muses  Mrs.  Nolan. 
"  ( :'!..:  would  think  1  was  married  yesterday,  and  could  not  bear 
Lewi;  <  '  t  of  my  sight.  1  will  do  nothing  so  ridiculous  ;  I  will 
wait;  oiwy  1  wish  it  were  five  instead  of  eleven  o'clock." 

Half-past  twelve  is  luncheon  hour.  As  Mrs.  Nolan  sits  down 
with  Teddy  to  th:.\t  mid  \:.y  refection,  a  boy  from  the  oilice 
comes  with  a  buff  envelope,  addressed  in  Mr.  Nolan's  none  too 
legible  hand  : 

'*My  Dearest:  Do  rot  wait  for  me  this  evening;  I  shall 
6e  detained^  antl  will  oroLuiblv  not  roacli  the  lioiise  until  after 
eleven.  Go  at  your  own  hour — we  will  meet  there.  Affection- 
ately, Lewis." 


368 


A  VISIT  AXD  .1  GOLDEN  WEDDING. 


m 


\  \ 


m  1 1 


Will  it  l)el)elievc(l  ?— she  has  been  niariicd  nearly  half  a  year, 
ri'inciubcr — Mrs.  Nolan  actually  cried  over  tiiis  note!  She  had 
made  ii[)  her  iiiiiul  to  have  fhat  explanation,  to  go  to  the  golilen 
wedding  in  a  golden  glow  of  peace,  proud  and  happy  on  her 
husband's  arm,  and  now  she  must  go  alone,  and  he  would  put 
in  an  api)earance  after  midnight,  or  perhai)s  not  at  all. 

"  Was  the  matter,  Auntie  Syd?"  pipes  Teddy,  opening  his 
brown  f,oleinn  eyes.  "  Was  you  cwying  'bout  ?  (limme  some 
more  chicken  pie.  Was  you  cwying  for  ?  I  ain't  done  nossin, 
has  1  ?  " 

Auntie  Syd  wipes  away  those  rebellious  tears,  and  laughs  and 
helps  Ted  to  chicken-pie. 

"  Was  I  cwyin'  'bout, — what,  indeed  ?  Auntie  Syd  is  only  an 
overgrown  baby,  after  all,  Master  Ted,  not  half  as  much  of  a 
hero  as  yourself.     Auntie  won't  cry  any  more." 

She  keeps  her  word,  but  the  afternoon  is  utterly  spoiled. 
She  takes  a  book,  lies  down  in  her  own  room,  darkens  it,  and 
tries  to  read  herself  to  slee|).  She  succeeds,  and  the  slanting 
yellow  lances  of  sunshine  that  make  their  way  in,  tell  her  when 
t-he  wakes  that  it  is  late.  She  looks  at  her  watch — past  five. 
She  sits  np  refreshed,  and  buoyant  once  more,  for  the  troubles 
of  her  waking  life  have  not  followed  her  into  dreamland.  She 
goes  down-stairs  at  once  towards  the  dining-room,  and  at  the 
hall-door  hears  bell-boy  jiin  in  magisterial  discussion  with  some- 
body who  wants  admission. 

"  Master  ain't  home  1  tell  yer  ;  and  if  he  was,  why  don't  you 
go  'round  to  the  airy  door.  He  ain't  home,  and  I  dunno  when 
he  will  be,  and  you  can  leave  your  name,  and  call  again." 

"  I  can't  call  again — what's  more  I  won't,"  rei)lied,  a  shrill 
feminine  voice.  "  1  want  to  see  Mr.  Nolan,  and  I'll  wait  till 
I  do.  Area  door,  indeed  !  1  knew  Mr.  Ixwis  Nolan  when  he 
had  neither  areas,  nor  hifalution  houses,  nor  impudent  little 
niggers  like  you." 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  says  the  gentle  tones  of  Mrs.  Nolan,  and 
bellboy  Jim,  "clothed  in  a  little  brief  authority, "  falls  back 
betbre  his  mistress. 

"  It's  a  young  woman,  missis,  wants  to  see  master.  I've 
told  her  he  ain't  home  yet,  but  she  won't  go." 

Sydney  looks,  then  recoils  with  a  strange  shrinking  ;  for  the 
young  woman,  pert  of  aspect,  loud  of  dress,  is  Dolly  De 
Courcy. 

There  is  a  moment's  silence ;  even  audacious  Dolly  seems 
taken  r.bark,  but  not  for  long. 


;"  ""■''■II. 


A  VISIT  AND  A  GOLDEN  WEDDING. 


369 


ami  laughs  and 


s.  Nolan,   and 
:y,"  falls  back 


master.     I've 


s  Dolly  seenn 


» 


"  I  want  to  see  Mi.  Nolan,"  she  says,  with  a  defiant  toss. 
"He  lives  here,  don't  he?  I've  had  trouble  enough  hunting 
him  up,  Lonl  knows  ;  I  ain't  going  back  without  seeing  him  now." 

"Mr.  Nolan  is  not  coming  home  to  dinner — will  not  return 
until  eleven,  probably.     If  it  is  anything  I  can  do  in  his  place — " 

"  Will  you  see  me  ?  "  says  Dolly,  with  a  certain  incredulity 
in  her  tone. 

•'  Undoubtedly,  if  it  is  anything  I  can  attend  to  as  well." 

"I  don't  know  but  that  you  can,"  says  Mi.ss  De  Courcy, 
with  a  disagreeable  little  laugh  ;  "perhaps  better  than  Lewis— 
oh,  beg  pai.:  .    !   1  mean  Mr.  Nolan." 

Something  in  the  tone  of  the  speech  brings  the  blood  to 
Sydney's  cheeks,  and  her  manner  changes  from  gentleness  to 
cold  formality. 

"  Will  you  walk  this  way  ?  And  I  must  beg  you  to  make 
your  business  brief,  for  I  ain  very  much  occupied  this  evening." 

"  I  won't  keep  you  long,"  is  Dolly's  answer. 

She  follows  Mrs.  Nolan  into  one  of  the  smaller  reception 
rooms,  and  gazes  in  undisguised  wonder  and  admiration  at  the 
stately  magnificence. 

"Ain't  this  just  splendid  !  "  Dolly  says,  half-audibly ;  "and 
all  his  !  Well,  it's  better  to  be  born  lucky  than  rich.  1  guess 
he  ain't  sorry,  when  he  looks  at  all  this,  that  1  didn't  marry  him 
when  he  wanted  me  to." 

The  color  deepens  in  Sydney's  face.  Can  it  be,  indeed,  that 
I-ewis — her  Lewis— has  ever  loved,  and  wished  to  marry,  this 
woman  ?  In  the  thought  there  is  unutterable  pain  and  humili- 
ation.  In  the  pure,  piercing  light  of  day.  without  stage  paints 
or  i)owders,  the  actress  looks  haggard  and  repulsive,  on  her  un- 
blushing front  a  brand  there's  no  mistaking. 

Sydney  shrinks  a  little,  but  she  waits  quietly. 

" W'hat  is  it  you  want?  "  she  asks. 

They  both  still  stand  ;  Mrs.  Nolan  cannot  quite  ask  her  to 
sit  down. 

"  You  know  who  I  am  ?"  demands  Dolly  De  Courcy. 

"  I  saw  you  at  the  theatre  last  week." 

''He  saw  me,  too,  didn't  he  ?— Lewis,  you  knon.  Oh  !  I 
beg  i)ar(lon  again  :  of  course  I  mean  Mister  Nolan."  A  toss 
of  the  head,  an  insolent  giggle.  The  Dolly  De  Courcy  of  to- 
day,  it  is  evident,  has  sunk  pitifully  below  the  Dolly  of  tiveyeam 

Mr.  Nolan  saw  you,  and  recognized  you,  I  believe.     He 


auo. 


said  he  had  known 
16* 


you  before 


m: 

">^ 

i 

1 

1 

J. 

I 

1 , 
1     '     ■ 

1    V'i  li 

1  ^  II 

iLiul 

^L.^  1 

370 


r/i/y  AA/>  A  GOLDEN  WEDDING. 


.'  Did  In.  say  he  wanted  mc  to  nvMry  lu.n-that  he  was  clea 
i„    Uvc  with    .nc-that   he  was  .n.ully  jealous  of-no   mat  c 
h(  -   Uvit   he    prayed   and   begged    lue   to   niarry   hi  ..,    and 
That  1  wouldn't'?    ^Did  he  tell  you  that  ? "  insolently  demands 

^'""will  you  tell  me  your  business  here?"  says  Mrs.  Nolan, 
with  1  stm-lv  coldness.  "  I  have  no  tune  to  waste. 
"  ..  Wi  h  ,  1  as  „K.,  I  un<le,s..„d.  liut  n.iuj,  you  offered  o 
.cc  n,e  you,sclf-l  ,li.l„  :  co,„e  .0  see  you.  »  •vo-ll.'f  j 
losoeik  to  von.  Hut  us  iiucer— oh,  'good  1,'  "'!"„'•  ""= 
%!^,t  thins  1  iKwe  ever  heard  of-that  you.j..-  of  all  pco- 
iilf   sliould  tro  anil  many ///w /"  ,      ^   i-       r      . 

^  V'^y^^^'^^^^  silent  looking  at  her-the  color  fading  from 

'^''Vrknew  you  the  nunute  I  set  eyes  on  yo","  i;^''^"^  had 
ictross  "  and,  I  declare,  it  almost  knocked  me  over.  1  hac 
K-ud  Lewi  had  married  a  New  York  heirc...  but  never  heard 
.;  mJ  an,l  if  1  had  1  wouldn't  have  thou.,ht  U  was  M./^ 
I^  ss  O  ens  n.  \Vhy,  it's  horrid  of  him  to  deceive  you  so,  be- 
cause'iryou  knew,  1  don't  believe  you  would  have  .named 

''"what  is  this?  Sydney  stands  quite  rigid  holding  a  chair, 
her  eves  on  Dolly's  face,  her  own  hxed  and  white. 
'"(5:f  course  /I  knew',"  pursues  Miss  l)e  Courcy,  and  s 
Nvhat  1  wouldn't  have  expected  of  him,  because  with  ah  hu 
n  .  y  temper  and  jealousy,  he  usn't  to  hke  that.  lUit  1  sup  e.e 
he  fhou^l  t  it  a  great  thing  to  carry  oft  a  beauty,  and  an  har- 
ass n^ul  a  fine  lady.  He  doesn't  think  1  know  as  nuu  h  a  I 
^  ^nd  the  mmute  \  heard  he  had  married  i^ch,  1  jnade  uj>  my 
iin<l  t  :  hunt  him  up  and  just  .,care  him  a  h  de  ;  but  I  didn  t 
^irX.  Dolly,  with  a  tragic  air,  1   didn't  think   he  would 

and  body  seeming  to  be  absorbed  and  gazing   at   Dolly,  and 

,  '^^^  W;:iri''::^nt  is  money,-  pursues  the  actress,  comiiig 
:  briskly  back  to  business.  "  It's  what  I've  conie  alter  and  wha 
'  1  must  have.  I  am  going  to  leave  Nevv  York  ^"^^^i^^"/  ^w 
or  three  thousand  for  a  suitable  wardrobe,  and  that  Mr  Lc  v. 
h'ls  -ot  to  give  me.  or-well,  never  mind  what,  n07a.  It  you  11 
let  me  wait,  I'll  wait  till  he  comes  ;  he  wont  reluse  so  ok  a 
friend''  Dolly  laughs  again.  "And  besides,  1  want  to  congratu- 
Ute  him      Why,  U's  like  one  of  our  pieces  exactly,  hts  doing 


-'% 


:  he  was  Ac.  ^ 
,f— no  matter 
rry  hiii>,  and 
jnlly  demands 

s  Mrs.  Nolan, 

,te." 

you  offered  to 

icvcr  expected 

,,)rd!'  it's  the 

you  of  all  peo- 

lor  fading  from 


A   VISIT  AN/)  .1   d  OLDEN  WEDDINd. 


37> 


pursues 


the 
:  over.  I  had 
lit  never  heard 
i-ht  it  was  that 
;ive  you  so,  be- 
1  have  married 


Uling  a  chair, 


urcy,  "  and  it's 
se,  with  ali  hi:, 
ikit  1  sui)p<  -^e 
y,  and  an  heir- 
ivv  as  nuu  h  a-  I 
,  I  made  up  my 
3;  but  I  didn't 
think   he  would 

faculty  of  mind 
;  at   Dolly,  and 

iclress,    coming 

after,  and  what 

and  I  want  two 

that  Mr.  Lewis 

,  no7i).     If  you'll 

I  refuse  so  old  a 

■ant  to  congratu* 

xactly,  his  doing 


*i 


^ihat  he  ha"  lioHc,  and  then  mm  ing  you,  and  me  turning  up, 
knowing  eveiythuig.  Hut  he  ought  not  to  have  married  you  — 
it  vviisn'i  the  scpuiie  thing,  and  that  I  mean  to  till  Iiini." 

Sydney  wakes  from  her  trance.  Wliatever  horrible  meaning 
lies  beneath  this  wretched  woman's  woids  :  one  thing  she  feels 
that  f'  r  some   misdemeanor   of    the    1  '■    intends  to    on- 

noy  :■  ^d  torm  r.t  l^ewis — Lewis,  who  .  nily  annoyed  by 

business  alreau*       She  takes  out  her  pi>       t-bouk. 

'*  Tyou  are  pjor,"  she  says,  "  I  will  1])  you.  If  you  have 
any  claim  upon  my  Inisband's  kindness,  it  "ill  not  be  disre- 
garded. 1  will  tell  him  you  have  been  here,  and  he  will  know 
what  is  right  to  l)e  done.  Meantime  take  this  from  me,  and 
do  not  I  'turn.  I.eavi;  youi  address,  and  you  shall  hear  from 
us." 

Dolly  looks  at  her  curiously,  but  she  takes  the  bills,  counts 
ihem  (jver,  and  jnits  them  in  her  po(  ket. 

"What  did  you  marry  him  for,  i  wonder?"  she  says,  as  if  to 


herself,  with  a  pu/zlcd  look  at  S' 
— 1  never  saw  any  one  prettier 
everyUiing.      He  isn't  handson 
Never  could  hold  a  candle  to  W 
Sydney  recoiled  at  the  sudtleii 


"  You're  awfully  pretty 
tich,  and  respectable,  and 
least  I    don't   think   so. 
Vaughun." 
iund  of  that  name. 


*'  You  never  found  out  who  killed  him,  did  you  ?  He  was 
thrown  over  the  bank,  you  know,  and  they  sus|)ected  me." 
Here  Miss  De  Courcy  laughs,  with  a  certain  savage  light  in  her 
ulack  eyes.  "  He  was  a  sneak  and  a  liar  anyway.  It  was  good 
enough  for  him — telling  lies  to  you  and  lies  to  me.  "  Didn't 
you  over  tell  your  husband  you  were  going  to  be  married  to 
him." 

'•  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"  He  has  deceived  you,  then  ;  men  are  all  alike — liars  every 
one  of  them.  Well,  when  he  comes  home  to-night  ask  him 
if  he  ever  knew  Uertie  Vaughan  ;  ask  him  how  they  parted 
lust  ;  tell  him  I  told  you,  an*]  that  1  can  tell  you  more.  Don't 
forget.     I'll  be  back  to-morrow." 

Miss  De  Courcy  turns  with  the  words,  and  goes  out  of  the 
room.  Mrs.  Nolan  makes  no  attempt  to  follow  her,  to  bring 
her  back,  to  ask  an  explanation.  She  stands  feeling  that  the 
room  is  going  round,  and  tliat  if  she  lets  go  her  hold  of  the 
chair  she  will  fall.     \   it  the  j^iddiness  passes  in  a  moment,  and 

down,  a 


grop 


the  cushion,  feeling  sick  and  faint. 


lay; 


up 


13^ 


What  does  this  dri    ami  woman  mean  ?     Her  words  are  all 


XFf 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST    CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


1.0 


l.i 


1.25 


illiil  l^ 

':.r        IIIII3.2 


I™. 

I- 
I- 


13.6 


114  0 


1.4 


I  2.5 
2.2 

2.0 


1.8 


1.6 


^     APPLIED  IM^GE 


16^3   f.Gst    Mam   Street 

Rochester,    Ne*   York         U609       USA 

1716)    482  -  0300  -  Phone 

(716)    288  -  5989  -  Fax 


372 


A   VISIT  AND  A  GOLDEN  WEDDING. 


I    I 


I 


confused  in  Sydney's  mind ;  only  one  thing  stands  clear,  and 
that— that  he  has  known  Bertie  Vaughan,  and  knows  who  killed 
him.  But  that  is  impossible.  Has  she  not  told  her  husband 
the  whole  story,  and  has  he  said  he  ever  heard  the  name  before, 
ever  met  Bertie  in  his  life  ?  The  creature  must  be  crazy  oi 
drunk,  or  both  ;  her  story  is  absurd  on  the  face  of  it.  But  what 
a  shock  even  an  absurd  story  can  give.  Slie  laughs  weakly  at 
her  own  folly  in  being  so  overcome,  and  then  a  glow  of  indigna- 
tion fills  her,  and  lends  her  strength.  How  shameful  that  she 
should  have  listened  while  her  husband  was  defamed,  called  a 
liar  and  deceiver  by  this  vulgar  actre.ss— her  beloved  husband, 
with  the  glance  of  a  prince,  honored  and  respected  of  all  men. 
Excitement  follows  indignation— no  more  lassitude  now.  She 
tries  to  dine,  but  finds  eating  a  delusion. 

An  artist  in  hair  comes  to  dress  those  liowing  blonde  tresses, 
greatly  admired,  and  she  is  nearly  an  hour  under  his  profes- 
sional hands.  Night  has  fallen,  gas  is  lit,  and  she  is  leaving, 
dressed  for  the  ball.  She  wears  white  and  rich  laces,  and  bridal 
pearls,  and  looks  lovely.  There  is  a  streaming  light  in  her 
eyes,  a  deep,  permanent  Hush  on  her  cheeks  that  makes  her 
absolutely  brilliant  to-night.  After  eleven  she  will  see  Levyis ; 
that  is  the  one  thought,  the  one  desire  uppermost  in  her  mind, 
as  she  is  driven  to  the  town  house  of  the  Ten  Eycks.  A 
lengthy  file  of  carriages  block  the  avenue,  policemen  keep 
order,  two  large  private  lamps  burn  before  the  house,  which  is 
lit  from  roof  to  basement.  A  red  carpet  is  laid  across  the 
pavement— colored  men  in  snowy  shirt  fronts,  kid  gloves,  black 
broadcloth  and  beautiful  manners,  stand  in  waiting.  It  is  a 
long  time  before  Mrs.  Nolan  finds  her  way  to  the  lofty  and 
superb  saloon  where  Madame  Ten  Eyck  receives  her  guests. 
Flowers  bloom  everywhere,  literally  everywhere,  gaslight  floods 
every  corner  ;  it  is  a  picture  all  light  and  no  shadow,  German 
dance  music  fills  the  air,  and  there  are  crowds  of  elegant 
women  in  magnificent  toilets.  All  are  making  their  way  to 
where  Mrs.  Ten  Eyck,  a  little  old  lady  in  creamy  satin,  yellow 
point,  priceless  diamonds,  with  a  severe  silvery  face,  snow- 
white  hair,  combed  back  a  la  Washington,  stands  in  state. 
She  looks  like  a  large  doll,  or  a  little  duchess— Sydney  hardly 
knows  which — and  she  receives  Mrs.  Nolan  with  distinction. 

"  1  was  an  heiress  myself,  my  dear,"  the  little  old  lady  said 
to  her,  on  the  occasion  of  their  first  meeting  ;  "only  not  half 
so  great  an  heiress  as  they  tell  me  you  are,  and  not  quarter  as 
great  a  beauty.     1   ran  away  with   Ten-  Eyck,  my   dear— he 


G. 


A    VISIT  AND  A    GOLDEN  WEDDING. 


373 


ids  dear,  and 
wswho  killed 
her  husljand 
name  before, 
t  be  crazy  oi 
it.  But  what 
ghs  weakly  at 
j\v  of  indigna- 
leful  that  she 
med,  called  a 
ived  husband, 
d  of  all  men. 
le  now.     She 

londe  tresses, 
er  his  profes- 
he  is  leaving, 
;es,  and  bridal 
\  light  in  her 
^X  makes  her 
ill  see  Lewis ; 
t  in  her  mind, 
m  Eycks.  A 
1  icemen  keep 
ouse,  which  is 
.id  across  the 
I  gloves,  black 
,ting.     It  is  a 

the  lofty  and 
L'S  her  guests, 
gaslight  tloods 
idow,  German 
ds  of  elegant 
;  their  way  to 
\f  satin,  yellow 
ry  face,  snokv- 
mds  in  state. 
Sydney  hardly 

distinction. 
:  old  lady  said 
'only  not  half 
not  quarter  as 

my   dear — he 


didn't  run  away  with  me,  mind — when  I  was  only  seventeen. 
My  father  cut  me  off  with  a  shilling,  and  we  began  housekeef)- 
ing  on  eighty  dollars.  1  fell  in  love  with  you,  my  dear,  the 
moment  I  heard  what  you  had  done.  I  don't  understand  the 
young  women  of  the  present  day — they  believe  in  marriage  but 
not  in  love.  In  my  time  we  believed  in  love,  if  we  never  were 
able  to  marry." 

It  was  Sydney's  good  fortune  to  attract  elderly  people. 
Men  worn  and  gray  in  life's  long  battle  looked  after  the  lissome 
shape,  and  frank,  sweet  face,  with  a  gravely  tender  smile. 
Mr.  Ten  Eyck,  a  patriarchal  old  gentleman,  greeted  her  with 
unwonted  cordiality,  inquired  for  her  husband,  hoped  he  would 
be  here,  had  heard  great  things  predicted  of  him,  hoped  he 
would  prove  worthy  of  the  wife  he  had  won,  and  verify  these 
predictions. 

Mrs.  Nolan  found  herself  at  once  surrounded  and  engaged 
for  every  dance  before  supper.  People  remembered  afterwar.l 
that  never  had  she  seemed  so  fair  or  so  brilliant  as  to-night. 

It  was  ten  when  Sydney  entered  the  house  ;  eleven  came, 
twelve,  and  still  no  Lewis.  A  fever  of  expectation,  impa- 
tience, longing,  filled  her.  In  half  an  hour  supper  would  be 
commenced — surely  he  would  be  here  to  take  her  down. 

She  made  her  escape  from  her  latest  partner,  and  took 
shelter  in  the  curtained  recess  of  an  open  bay  window.  How 
cool  and  fresh  seemed  the  sharp  night  air ;  imprudent  perhaps 
to  sit  in  a  draught,  but  darkness  and  solitude  were  tempting. 
Excitement  had  made  her  head  ache,  and  her  cheeks  buri 
She  leaned  her  forehead  against  the  cool  glass,  and  looked  up 
at  the  million  stars  keeping  watch  over  the  great  city.  Some 
men  were  talking  in  the  piazza  just  outside,  their  voices  blended 
with  the  music  within,  and  the  fragrance  of  the  cigars  they  were 
smoking  came  to  her  as  she  sat.  They  were  talking,  in  a 
desultory  way,  of  the  ball,  of  the  ladies,  of  the  war ;  all  at  once 
she  heard  her  own  name  pronounced — some  one  was  saying 
she  was  the  prettiest  woman  present.  Some  one  else  spoke 
of  her  husband's  absence,  a  third  made  some  campaigning 
remark,  and  the  subjects  seemed  to  connect  themselves  in  his 
mind. 

Why  doesn't  Nolan  try  it,  I  wonder  ?  "  said  this  gentleman  in 
a  dissatisfied  tone.  "  He's  as  likely  a  mark  fov  a  bullet  as  any 
of  \\%  ;  a  tall  and  proper  fellow  like  that." 

"Ah!  why?"  retorts  No.  i,  with  a  satirical  laugh.  "  He  i« 
the  only  son  of  his  mother,  and  she  is  a  widow." 


374 


A    VISIT  AND  A    GOLDEN   WEDDING. 


If 


"  He  has  married  a  wife,  and  therefore  cannot  come,"  says 

''  All  wrong,  you  fellows,"   cuts  in  a  fourth  voice  ;  "  he  is 

going I  happen  to  know.     He  has  been  offered  the  captaincy 

in  his  old  reginient,  vice  Wendall,  shot,  and  has  accepted.  He 
has  kept  it  ([uiet — the  fact  is  three  days  old  ;  but  I  can't  stand 
by  and  hear  you  old  women  abuse  him.  You  envy  him_  natu- 
rally—1  do  myself.  Lovely  girl,  that  wife.  He  starts  in  two 
days.     As  good  a  fellow  as  ever  lived,  is  Nolan." 

"  And  as  plucky,"  supplements  another ;  "  he  was  out  die 
first  year,  as  you  know.  We  served  together.  Got  a  bullet  in 
the  lung,  and  came  home  invalided.  There's  fight  enough  in 
Nolan— being  an  Irishman,  that  is  understood,  I5ut  as  to  his 
going  out,  by  (ieorge,  if  I  were  in  his  place  I  would  chink  twice 
before  1  left  a  wife  like  that,  only  married  yesterday,  or  there- 
about. There's  the  ''Sohiatm  Liedcr ''  —let's  go  back.  This  is  a 
great  night  ;  Mrs.  Ten  Eyck  expects  every  man  to  do  his  duty." 

They  go  ;  but  Sydney,  long  after  their  voices  cease,  sits  frigid. 
Is  she  in  a  drean.i  ?    Lewis  going  to  join  the  army,  without  a  word 

to  her going  in  two  days  !     She  sits  for  a  while  so  stunned  that 

movement  or  tliought  is  impossible.  Then  she  rises  slowly  and 
stiflly,  feeling  chilled  to  the  heart  by  the  frosty  night  wind,  and 
parts  the  curtains  and  step  out.  Almost  the  first  person  she 
sees  is  her  husband,  talking  to  one  or  two  other  men. 

"Then  you're  really  going  back,  Nolan?"  one  says;  *' it  is 
an  accomplished  fact?  Well,  we  need  such  men  as  you,  and 
we  all  must  make  sacrifices  at  our  country's  call." 

"  Day  after  tc -morrow,  is  it  ?  "  asks  a  second,  and  Nolan 
nods  a  little  impatiently,  his  jyes  wandering  about  in  search 

of  some  one.  .     . 

Sydney  comes  forward.  The  color  has  left  her  face— it  is 
wliile  as  her  dress  ;  her  eyes  look  blank  and  bewildered  with 
sudden  terror.  The  men  stare  at  her— her  husband  with  an 
alarmed  look  is  instantly  at  her  side. 

"Sydney,  you  are  ill  I"  .  . 

u  Yes— no,"  she  answers,  incoherently,  gra.  )ing  his  arm. 
«  Oh  !  Lewis,  take  me  home." 

"  Sit  down  for  a  moment,"  he  says. 

He  knows  she  has  heard  what  he  meant  to  break  to  her  him- 
self She  obeys  and  he  leaves  her,  but  he  is  back  directly  with  a 
glass  of  icetl  champagne. 

"  Drink  this." 

She  obeys  once  more,  looking  at  him  with  imploring  eyes. 


)t  come,"  says 

/oice  ;  "  he  is 
I  the  captaincy 
iccepted.  He 
t  I  can't  stand 
nvy  him  natii- 
i  starts  in  two 

e  was  out  die 
[iot  a  bullet  in 
ight  enough  in 
I)Ut  as  to  his 
uld  think  twice 
iiday,  or  there- 
back.  This  is  a 
to  do  his  duty." 
:ease,  sits  frigid. 

without  a  word 
so  stunned  that 
risos  slowly  and 
night  wind,  and 
first  person  she 

men. 

ne  says  ;  "it  is 
■n  as  you,  and 

md,  and  Nolan 
about  in  search 

her  face — it  is 
bewildered  with 
'isband  with  an 


a:  )ing   his  arm. 

)reak  to  herhim- 
k  directly  with  a 

nploring  eyes. 


"HEARTS  BREAK  AS    THE  SUN  GOES  DOIVN.-"        375 


My  head  aches  and 
Take  me   home  at 


"Will  you  not  take  me  home,  Lewis? 
burns — this  glare  and  nuisic  is  torture, 
once." 

'■'■  Certainly,  my  dearest ;  but  will  you  not  wait  for " 

"  No,  no — I  will  wait  for  nothing.      Take  me  home  at  once 
—  at  once  !" 

:  But  "  at  once  "  is  not  so  easy.  Mr.  Nolan  nuist  see  his  hostess, 
and  explain  that  his  wife  has  been  taken  suddenly  ill.  Then  an- 
other half  hour  passes  before  their  carriage  can  come  into  line 
and  she  is  safely  seated  in  it,  her  head  on  Lewis'  shoulder,  his 
arm  holding  her  to  him,  and  scarcely  a  word  interchanged  the 
whole  way. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  NO  SUN  GOES  DOWN  BUT  THAT  SOME  HEART  DOES  BREAK." 

T  is  the  supr._me  hour  of  his  life — he  feels  that.  He 
has  not  meant  that  a  denouement  shall  come  in  this 
wa}^  ;  he  has  intended  to  break  to  her  the  news  of  his 
departure  ;  andwhen  far  away  write  to  her  the  story  he 
knows  he  must  tell  now.  All  the  way  home  he  is  nerving  him- 
self for  the  ordeal — the  self-repression,  the  self-command,  that 
have  been  the  study  of  his  life  for  uic  past  five  years  stand  him 
in  good  stead  now.  Except  that  the  face  on  which  the  lamps 
shine  is  deadly  i)ale,  there  is  no  change.  The  eyes  he  fixes  on 
his  wife  arc  dark  with  unutterable  sadness  and  compassion. 
For  her,  she  trembles  and  clings  to  him,  and  when  they  reach 
her  own  room,  to  which  he  leads  her,  she  clasps  her  hands  and 
speaks  for  the  first  time. 

"  Lewis,  is  this  true  ?  " 

"  Sit  down,  Sydney,"  he  says  gently,  and  places  her  in  a 
chair.      "  J  s  what  true,  my  wife  ?  " 

"  That  yoa  are  about  to  rejoin  your  regiment — that  you  go 
the  day  after  to-morrow  ?     I  heard  it  all  at  the  ball." 

She  is  thinking  of  this  strange  fact  alone,  that  she  is  about  to 
lose  him,  and  that  he  has  never  told  her.  It  pierces  her  heart 
like  a  knife— it  has  driven  all  thought  of  Dolly  De  Courcy  and 
her  suggestion  out  of  her  mind. 

"  It  is  quite  true." 


I!  1  ? 


■^   I 


376      "HEARTS  BREAK  AS   THE  SUN  GOES  DOWNV 

*'  And  you  never  told  me  /" 

The  passionate  reproach  of  the  eyes  that  look  at  him — those 
gentle  Ijliie  eyes  that  never  had  for  him  other  than  infinite  ten- 
(leiness — move  him  to  the  soul. 

"  My  darling,  I  meant  to  explain — I  meant  to  have  told  you 
Lu-morrow.  You  know  I  have  often  spoken  of  this  to  you  since 
our  marriage.  After  all,  it  is  only  my  duty.  You  would  not 
listen,  and  I — Heaven  help  me  ! — was  not  strong  enough  to 
break  from  the  gentle  arms  that  held  me  back — miglit  nevre 
have  broken  but  for  what  passed  between  us  the  other  night. 

"  The  other  night !  "  She  repeats,  in  vague  wonder.  Then 
recollection  (lashes  upon  her,  and  her  eyes  dilate  incredulously. 
"Lewis,"  she  exclaims,  "you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  story 
I  told  you  the  other  night  has  forced  you  to  do  this?" 

"  1  am  only  doing  my  duty,  Sydney.  Still,  but  for  that  story 
my  duty  might  never  have  been  done." 

Slie  gazes  art  him  silently,  seemingly  lost  in  wonder  and  in- 
credulity. 

"  Did  you  feel  the  fact  of  my  former  engagement  so  deeply, 
then  ?  IJecause  1  was  once  before  on  the  verge  of  marriage 
you  leave  me  to  rejoin  the  army  ?  Oh  !  Lewis,  pardon  me, 
but  I  cannot  believe  this." 

"  That  was  the  cause,  but  not  as  you  think.  Sydney,  love,  do 
you  remember,  in  telling  me  of  your  previous  engagement  be- 
fore our  marriage,  you  never  told  me  the  man's  name?  Had 
you  done  so,"  he  stops  a  moment,  "  we  would  never  have  been 
man  and  wife." 

She  sits  quite  still,  her  hands  clasped,  her  dilated  eyes,  look- 
ing almost  black  with  vague  terror,  fixed  on  his  face. 

"  \)m  you  recall,"  he  goes  on,  "  that  moonlight  January  night 
when  we  walked  home  together,  and  I  told  you  there  was  a 
secret  in  my  life,  that  if  told  might  separate  us  forever  ?  Your 
answer  was,  that  with  my  past  life  you  had  nothing  to  do — you 
only  recpiircd  perfect  truth  and  fidelity  for  the  future.  Oh ! 
love,  why  did  you  not  bid  ine  speak  ?  1  would  have  told  you 
then,  when  it  was  not  yet  too  late,  the  miserable  story  I  must 
tell  you  to-night.  Truth  and  fidelity  were  all  you  asked  in  your 
noble  trust  and  generosity,  and  these  I  could  give  you  without 
stint  or  measure.  If  I  had  ever  heard  the  name  of  Bertie 
Vaughan ■" 

He  shudders  as  he  says  it,  and  looks  off,  and  all  at  once  there 
flashes  back  upon  her  bewildered  mind  the  memory  of  the  after- 
noon's visit,  and  the  dark  hints  dropped  by  the  actress. 


f  DOVVNr 

at  him — those 
an  intinite  ten- 

)  have  told  you 
lis  to  you  since 
^ou  would  not 
ong  enough  to 
. — miglit  nevre 
other  night, 
vender.  Then 
:  incredulously, 
y  that  the  story 
.his?" 
It  for  that  story 

ronder  and  in- 

lent  so  deeply, 
ge  of  marriage 
'is,  pardon  me, 

ydney,  love,  do 
iiigagement  be- 
>  name  ?  Had 
ever  have  been 

ited  eyes,  look- 
face. 

it  January  night 
Du  there  was  a 
brever  ?  Your 
ling  to  do — you 
i  future.  Oh ! 
have  told  you 
ie  story  I  must 
u  asked  in  your 
ve  you  without 
lanie  of  Bertie 

.11  at  once  there 
ory  of  the  after- 
actress. 


** HEARTS  BREAK  AS   THE  SUN  GOES  DOWN:'        377 

"Lewis,"  she  suddenly  exclaims,  "a  very  strange  ])erson 
came  to  see  me  tliis  afternoon— 1  meant  to  tell  you,  and  forgot 
—and  she  said  very  strange  things.  The  person  was  the  ac- 
tress we  saw  the  otlier  night— Dolly  De  Courcy— and  the  things 
she  said  were  about  you  and  Bertie  Vaughan." 

"  Dolly  De  Courcy  ! "  he  rei)eats,  in  wonder.  "  What  was 
It  she  said?" 

"  She  told  "me  to  ask  you  "—Sydney  puts  her  hand  to  her 
head  in  a  dazed  way,  trying  to  recall— "how  you  last  parted 
from  Bertie  Vaughan." 

He  stood  stricken  speechless,  it  would  seem,  t^       r  words. 
"  How,  in  Heaven's  name,  does  she  know  ?  "  he  says,  speak- 
ing as  if  to  himself.     "  Was  she  there,  and  has  she  all  this  time 
l<ept  the  secret  ?     Surely  not— she  never  kept  a  secret  in  her 
life— she  would  be  the  first  to  tell.     It  must  be  that  she  only 
suspects.     But  to  come  here— to  force  herself  upon  you  ! " 
His  face  flushes  angrily,  his  eyes  indignantly  flash. 
"She  came  in  search  of  you,  Lewis,"  his  wife  interposes,  in 
a  broken  voice.     "  She  said  she  had  a  claim  upon  you,  and  I 
saw  her  in  your  stead.     I  had  no  wish  to  pry  into  any  secret  of 
your  life,  Lewis." 
^  Her  voice  breaks  altogether  for  a  moment  in  a  great  sob. 
Then  she  starts  to  her  i^^i^  and  holds  out  both  hands  piteously. 
"  Lewis,  7f//ia/ is  this  ?  "   she  cries.     "  I  feel  as  if  my    heart 
were  breaking  ;  I  am  afraid  of— I  don't  know  what.     Somethino- 
stands  between  us,  and  keeps  me  from  you.     If  you  ever  loved 
nie,  tell  me  it  is  no  crime  of  yours  that  is  parting  us  now.     One 
word  of  denial  will  be  enough  ;  I  will  believe  you,  though  all 
the  world  stood  up  and  accused  you  with  one  voice." 

She  sees  the  strong  frame  cjuiver  from  head  to  foot ;  she  sets 
the  desperate  gesture  with  which  he  stops  her. 

"  Cease !  "  he  says,  hoarsely.  "  I  cannot  bear  it ;  for  it  is  a 
crime  that  stands  between  us— one  that  should  have  held  us 
asunder  forever." 

She  drops  back  into  her  chair,  and  puts  one  trembling  hand 
over  her  eyes.  And  Lewis  Nolan,  leaning  against  the  mantel, 
regains  his  wonderful  self-restraint  after  a  moment,  and  rapidly 
aiul  concisely  begins  the  dark  recoid  he  has  to  tell. 

"  1  knew  Dolly  De  Courcy.  'Tis  ten  years  ago  now,  when  I 
wns  a  lad  of  eighteen,  that  I  knew  her  first.  She  was  an  actress 
at  the  tune,  and  her  black  eyes  and  co(|uettish  wavs  captured 
my  romantic  boyish  fancy  at  sight.  In  those  days  I  was  an  in- 
veterate play-goer.     Uncle  Grift's  good  nature  kept  me  always 


*5    '' 


1   i    I 


1 


378        ^^IIEAKTS  BREAK  AS   THE  SUN  GOES  DOWN» 

MippliL-d  with  sulFicicnt  iDoMcy  for  tliat  dissipation.     Afy  mother 
as  .1  M.h,  ely  sclf-willal  m  those  clays,  had  ideas  about  jo ming 

II  r'"","    '^''^^"^"   ™"  '"'•i^-'^^l^-lovcrs,    perhaps,   I 

sho,  Id  say--for  she  was  an  arrant  little  llirt  even  then,  and  wiU- 
iiii,'  o  lool  iue  to  the  top  of  n.y  bent.  We  were  en^a-ed  after 
an  absurd  boy-and-girl  fa.hion,  when  I  was  twenty.^  1  left  oft" 

!.  m^n'i^'''  '^T?  '^'  '"r"^  '•'""''  '-^^^^  '"""^'>''  '-^"^1  >""k  forward 
to  naruage  and  house-keepuig.  Jt  was  all  profoundest  earnest 
and  good  faith  on  n,y  part.  The  girl  had  bewitched  me.  I  be- 
an d"""!,'''  '?,  '  ^'^^'y"»"g  tliat  was  good,  and  w.rm-hearted, 
ad  o  norab  e  ;  and  in  those  days  I  believe  she  was  an  honesJ 
^  :.•'  ''7  Vm"^  f/'\"'  infaliKUed  young  sin)pleton  who  ran 
n  1      1     !     ^■'',  Y^'k,  and  was  furiously  jealous  of  every 

a  MO  looked  at  her-of  her  stage  lovers,  and  the  fellows 
about  the  theatre  generally.  She  laughed  at  my  jealousy,  ridi- 
culed mv  rages,  for  m  those  days  1  had  a  furious  lemperf  quite 
iincurb.d.  bhe  ^yould  not  marry  me,  n.ade  ganx-  of  my  ,,oeti- 
Cdl  dras  of  love  m  a  cottage,  and  1  believe  in  her  heart  was 
tu-ecl  ot  my  too  exactmg  devotion. 

"  Afy  jnother  and  sister  knew  very  little  of  all  this-thev 
certainly  were  aware  that  I  had  formed  some  absurd  attach- 
ment  for  an  actress,  but  1  was  moody  and  sullen  about  it  all 

t^  n.-'t  ""'       1?  ^'^"t  ^'^'^'^''  "1'  '"  ^""^  '  '^  ^^'  ^  wretched 
fiiuH  ^  supremely   wretched  one   for   all    the 

"It  was  about  this  time  that  Dolly  went  to  Wychcliffe  It 
was^not  the  first  occasion  she  had  gone  out  of  New  York,  but 
1  seemed  to  fed  her  absence  more  deeply  this  time  than  ever 

d,  7nV.,       ■''    .^  ""  f  •"  '"'*'''"-  ^^^"^  "^W'  ^"^5  wondering  at 
the  mtaiuation  that  chamed  n)e  to  such  a  won,an_of  no  use 

unkmg  how  supremely  wretched  my  life  would  have  been  if 

sue  had  taken  me  at  my  word  and  married  me.     J  urired  her 

to,  before  she  went  to  AVychcliffe,  and  she  actually  promised    o 

do  so  as  soon  as  she  returned,  and  1  believe  meant  to  keep  her 

^    "In  the  company  was  a  man  with  whom  I  occasionally  cor- 
responded   and    who   kept   a    watchful    eye   upon   my  fickle 

(.    ;r  V         '"^'   u""?   '^'"^  }    ^''''  ^'''''''^   of  ^'^'  "^vv  lover, 

.c,  lie  Vaughan.     He  haunted  her  like  her  shadcv,  it  appeared 

us  sudcen  devotion  was  the  laughter  of  the  whole  company! 

l^u.ly,  It  seemed,  was  deeply  smitten,  too;  they  were  almost 


GO£S  DOIVN." 

Mtion.     My  mother 
tfiil  associa'cs  ;  but 

iileus  about  joining 
'-  in  my  own  way. 
-lovers,  pel  haps,  1 
L'ven  then,  and  wiU- 
■verc  engaged,  after 
twenty.  1  left  off 
,  and  look  forward 
)rofountlest  earnest 
witched  nie.  I  be- 
tnd  warmhearted, 

she  was  an  honest 
simpleton  who  ran 
/  jealous  of  every 
S  and  the  fellows 
-  my  jealousy,  ridi- 
ious  temper,  quite 
game  of  my  poeti- 
in  her  heart  was 

of  all  this — they 
lie  absurd  attach- 
:illen  about  it  all. 
t  was  a  wretched 
I  one   for   all    the 

to  Wyclicliffe.  It 
of  New  York,  but 
lis  time  than  ever 
ukI  wondering  at 
Oman — of  no  use 
uld  have  been  if 
lie.  J  urged  her 
ually  promised  to 
neant  to  keep  her 

occasionally  cor- 
upon  my  fiekle 
her  new  lover, 
tOrV,  It  ajjpeared  j 
whole  com})any. 
hey  were  almost 


^* HEARTS  BREAK  AS   THE  SUM  GOES  DOWN:'        .J79 

inseiKirable.  Had  I  not  better  come  on  and  look  after  my 
property?  wrote  my  friend.  1  ccnild  not  go  on,  but  J  wrote 
fine,  furious  letters  to  Dolly,  which  Dolly  did  not  answer. 
Poor  soul !  llirtation  was  more  in  her  line  than  letter-writing. 
Finally  an  ei)islle  did  come.  'Would  I  break  off ?  She  was 
tired  of  being  scolded  ;  1  was  too  cross  and  hateful  An-  any- 
thing. Please  not  to  trouble  her  with  any  more  jealous  letters, 
and  she  would  give  me  back  my  ring  when  she  returned  to 
New  York." 

"  I  could  laugh  now,  even  in  all  the  bitterness  of  despair, 
as  I  look  back  and  recall  the  effects  this  letter  had  upon  me. 
Insane  as  1  was,  fool  as  I  was,  1  still  kept  my  rage  to  myself, 
but  my  mind  was  made  up.  I  would  go  to  VVychcliffe,  I 
would  see  this  man,  this  young  aristocrat  who  v/as  fooling 
Dolly,  and  force  him  to  hear  reason,  if  1  could  not  force  her. 
I  knew  he  was  fooling  her,  for  my  actor  acquaintance  had 
informed  me  that  he  was  engaged  to  a  young  lady  residing  in 
the  town,  the  only  daughter  of  a  very  rich  man,  and,  in  fact, 
about  to  be  married  to  her.  Not  once  was  your  name  men- 
ticmed — it  was  always  as  a  young  lady  of  Wychcliffe  you  were 
spoken  of;  his  name  alone,  Bertie  Vaughan,  J  knew. 

"  Fortune  seemed  to  favor  me.  AVhile  1  was  meditating 
upon  some  plan  of  making  my  way  to  Wychclifte,  Mr.  Graham, 
on  the  point  of  starting  for  Minnesota  upon  some  important 
business,  was  taken  very  ill.  Some  one  m  ist  go  in  his  place. 
He  had  limitless  confidence  in  my  integrity  and  business 
cai)abilities,  and  I  was  to  go  in  his  stead.  It  was  the  very 
op|)ortunity  I  was  seeking.  I  left  home  ostensibly  to  start 
West,  but  in  reality  to  go  first  to  Wychclifie,  force  Vauglian 
to  give  up  his  pretensions,  whatever  they  were,  to  Dolly,  by 
fair  means  or  foul. 

"  I  reached  \Vychcliffe  in  the  middle  of  a  whirling  snow- 
storm,  and  tiie  first  news  I  heard  was  that  the  theatre  people, 
])olly  included,  had  left  the  town  a  whole  week  before.  This 
was  startling  intelligence,  and  I  half-resolved  to  o  back  to 
New  York,  seek  out  Dolly,  and  reproach  her  w  i  her  vile 
infidelity.  I  heard,  too,  without  asking  any  questioLs,  that  a 
fashionable  marriage  was  to  take  place  next  day,  and  that  the 
name  of  the  bridegroom  was  Vaughan,  also  that  Vaughan  had 
been  courting  the  actress  all  the  while  he  was  courting  the 
hi-iress,  and  liked  the  actress  best. 

"  Men  laugiied,  and  cracked  jokes  about  it  at  the  hotel  bar, 
while  I  listened,  devoured  with  silent  jealousy  and  rage.     Evea 


I  'I 


11 


ill 


I  f 


380         'M  FOATD  KISS,  AND   THEN  IV E  SEVER." 

then  your  name  was  not  mentioned — if  it  was,  I  paid  no 
attention  to  it  ;  my  only  thoughts  were  of  him  who  hud  dared 
to  supplant  me.  Still  listening,  I  learned  that  he  was  stopping 
fit  this  very  house,  and  woulil  he  along  about  half  past  ti-n. 
That  determined  me.  1  would  wait  and  meet  him,  as  I  had 
come  so  far  to  do  it ;  I  would  force  him,  if  he  ever  met  Di»lly 
again,  to  drop  her  acipiaintance  ;  for  an  engaged  llirt,  as  I 
suew,  was  ready  to  prove  a  married  ilirt.  1  would  force  this 
promise  from  him,  then  take  the  night  train  for  New  York, 
seek  out  Dolly  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  and  have  a  hnal 
settlement  with  her  before  going  to  Minnesota  for  an  indefmite 
time.  I  had  no  other  thought  but  that — 1  say  it  before 
Heaven, 

"  I  started  about  half-past  nine,  ostensibly  to  take  the  train 
back  to  New  York,  in  reality  to  take  the  path  by  which  i  had 
heard  Vaughan  returned  to  the  hotel,  and  meet  him  somewhere 
on  the  way.  You  may  remember  that  night.  The  snow-storni 
had  ceased,  the  moon  and  stars  were  shinmg  on  the  white,  glis- 
tening ground  ;  it  was  mild  and  windless  as  1  walked  along  the 
steel)  path  above  the  shore.  The  talk  of  the  n)en  about  this 
man  1  was  going  to  meet  and  Dolly,  had  thrown  me  into  one  of 
my  black,  silent  rages  ;  their  laughter  implied  more  than  their 
words,  and  had  maddened  me.  I  took  my  stand  at  what  I 
judged  to  be  about  half-way,  and  leaning  against  a  large  rock, 
looked  out  at  the  sea  creeping  up  so  far  below,  and  waited." 

Lewis  Nolan  pauses.  In  a  low,  suppressed  voice,  full  of 
intensest  feeling,  he  has  narrated  all  this.  In  her  chair,  her  eyes 
upon  him,  her  face  stony — his  wife  listens.  But  now  she  starts 
up,  and  puts  out  both  arms  blindly. 

"Lewis!"  she  cries,  in  a  voice  that  pierces  his  very  soul, 
"  don't  tell  nie  that  it  was  you  who  killed'  Bertie  Vaughan  I  " 

"  God  help  me  !  God  forgive  me  1  "  he  answers  in  a  stifled 
voice — "  it  was  11" 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"a  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever." 
PHE  stands,  almost  paralyzed,  looking  at  him,  her  arms 


1^^^-^    aCid  out  in  that  buna  agony,  her  eyes  fixed  and  dark 
^^g4     ^^''^'^  horror.     He  thinks  she  is  going  to  faint,  and  takes 


a  step  towards  her ;  but  as  he  attempts  to  touch  her,  she 


SEVER." 

was,  I  paid  no 
111  wlio  had  dared 
,t  he  was  stopping 
)iit  half  past  W\^. 
:ci  liiiii,  as  I  had 
le  ever  met  Dolly 
ngagcd    llirt,  as   I 

would  force  this 
n  for  New  York, 
,  and  have  a  final 
a  for  an  indefinite 
-1    say   it   before 

•  to  take  the  train 
th  by  which  1  iiad 
ii  him  somewhere 

The  snow-storm 
on  the  white,  glis- 
walked  along  the 
i  men  about  this 
k'n  me  into  one  of 
1  more  than  their 

stand  at  what  I 
inst  a  large  rock, 
*v,  and  waited." 
sed  voice,  full  of 
er  chair,  her  eyes 
iut  now  she  starts 

:es  his  very  soul, 
tie  Vaughan  !  " 
iswers  in  a  stitied 


;VER. 


at  him,  her  arms 
'c5  fixcu  and  dutk 
to  faint,  and  takes 
:s  to  touch  her,  she 


"^  FOND  AVSS,  AND  THEN  WE  SEVER  »  381 

Bhrinks  suddenly  back.  It  is  the  slightest  of  movements,  but  it 
holds  him  from  her,  as  a  wall.  He  turns  abruptly  and  resumes  his 
fonner  place.  She  drops  back  into  her  chair,  lays  her  white  face 
on  llie  table  beside  her,  and  neither  speaks  nor  moves  a'^ain. 

"Shall  1  finish?'-  he  huskily  says,  after  a  moment,  Imd  as 
there  is  no  reply,  he  goes  on  :  "  I  waited  for  him  there.  I 
had  not  long  to  wait.  Presently  he  came  along  in  the  moon- 
light, whistling  as  he  came,  as  if  he  had  not  a  care  in  the  world 
-  this  man  who  was  betraying  two  women.  1  knew  him  in- 
stantly in  the  clear  moonlight— I  heard  him  described  often 
enough  ;  and  as  he  was  about  to  i)ass  the  place  where  1  stood, 
1  started  out  into  the  light,  and  said  : 

"Stay!" 

"  He  stopped  at  once,  ceased  his  whistling,  and  looked  at 

'"'!;  f, '"  r,'/'""^^'-^''  ^  ''""'^  ''■'^''  1^"'  '^^  spoke  coolly  enough. 
Well,  he  said,  '  who  are  you  ?' 

II  I  You  are  Kertie  Vaughan  !"*  was  my  answer. 

And  who  the  devil  are  you  that  makes  so  free  with   my 
name  ?     Get  out  of  my  way  and  let  me  pass.' 

" 'Not  just  yet,' I  said;  'I  have  a  little  account  to  settle 
with  you,  Mr.  JJertie  Vaughan,  before  we  part,  and  I  have  come 
ail  the  way  from  New  York  to  settle  it.' 

I' '  Who  are  yon  ?  '  he  asked,  curiously. 

"  I  am  Lewis  Nolan,  the  man  to  whom  Dolly  De  Courcy  is 
engaged,  and  i  demand  of  you  to  resign  all  acquaintance  with 
her  trom  this  moment.' 

He  laughed. 

"'So,'  he  said,  'you're  the  fellow  Dolly's  to  marry.     Well 
vvhen  1  am  ready  to  give  her  up  she  may  marry  you,  you  an- 
dcrstand  ?     Now  move  aside.' 

"There  was  something  so  insufferably  insulting  and  sneerintr 
in  his  tone  and  laugh  that  I  lost  the   last  remnant  of  self-con 
lol.     1  sprang  at  his  throat  ;  he  darted  back,  and  lifting  a  cane 
lie  earned,  he  broke  it  across   my  shoulders.     Then  we  grai> 
plcc ,  and  the  struggle  began.     Not  a  word  was  spoken,  as  we 
•eld  each  other  there  in  that  narrow  path.     At  all  times  1  must 
nave  been  the  stronger  of    !.e   two;  now,   beside  myself  with 
lury,  he  was  no  more  i>  d.,h  for  me   than  a  diild.     Uncon- 
scious y  we  had  wrestled  near  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  and  all  at 
once  1  freed  myself  and  threw  him  from  me  wish  a!!  my  mi-ht. 
I  threw  him  from  me-as  Heaven  hears  me,  J  had  no  thought 
«  rr'"^'      "  '''""''  "*"  ^'^""ght  of  the  i)iecipice  at  all. 
Ihere  was  a  cry  that  has  rung  in  my  ears  ever  since,  a  cry 


ii 


! 


■}■'  i 


383        **/i   FOND  A'/SS,  AND   THEN  WE  SEVER.-" 

of  horror  and  (k'S|)air  that  I  will  hear  when  I  am  dyuig,  a  ghmpse 
of  a  while,  agonized  face,  and  then " 

He  breaks  off.  There  is  agony  in  his  own  face,  agony  in  his 
Voice,  great  drops  on  his  forciiead,  and  the  hand  thai  hangs  by 
his  side  is  clenched.  Tlie  pi<tiire  is  before  him  ;  if  he  would,  he 
could  not  keep  back  the  worils  thatjjaint  it.  It  has  lain  locked 
in  his  bosom  so  long — he  has  seen  that  face,  heard  that  death-cry 
so  often,  asleep  anil  awake,  all  tiiese  years,  that,  now  the  hour 
has  come,  he  must  si)eak  all  or  nothing.  Vox  his  wife,  she  neither 
gives  wov  ;  nor  sign,  and  yet  he  knows  she  hears  all. 

"  Well,"  he  says,  in  a  hurried,  breathless  sort  of  voice,  and 
looking  up  again,  "  I  don't  know  how  long  1  stood  there— para- 
lyzed by  the  deed  1  had  done.  I  knew  the  depth  of  that  preci- 
pice— I  had  seen  the  jagged  bed  of  rocks,  like  black  spikes, 
projecting  in  the  moonlight  eighty  feet  below.  I  knew  what  I 
woiddseeifl  looked  over.  And  1  (W/A/w^p/ look  over.  Some- 
thing of  the  horror  of  the  awful  sight  that  would  meet  me,  held 
me  back.  I  had  done  a  nuirder — that  thought  filled  nie,  body 
and  soul.  Tiiere  was  neither  word  nor  cry,  and  turning  sudden- 
ly, without  one  backward  look  1  walked  away. 

"  I'erhaps,  in  reality,  I  had  not  stood  there  five  seconds— five 
hours  could  not  have  seemed  longer,  I -ike  a  man  who  walks  in 
his  sleei),  liardly  conscious  of  what  1  did,  or  where  I  went,  1  hur- 
ried on  ;  J  neither  feared  nor  cared  for  detection  ;  I  never  thought 
of  it,  in  fact,  1  had  but  one  feeling—the  brand  of  Cain  was  upon 
me  for  all  time — I  had  slain  my  biotlier.  I  walked  all  night.  I 
was  too  late  for  any  train  back  ;  but  early  in  the  morning  I  found 
myself,  foot-sore  and  weary,  at  another  town  some  eighteen  miles 
from  Wychcliffe,  and  made  inijuiries  of  the  men  1  met  going  to 
work.  A  train  started  at  seven  ;  I  found  it,  got  on  board,  re- 
turned to  New  York,  breakfasted,  and  in  a  few  hours  was  speed- 
ing along  westward  by  express. 

"  The  first  intense  horror  had  by  this  time  faded  from  my 
mind  ;  1  saw  now  how  insanely  J  had  acted  ;  I  was  not  guilty  f  f 
murder — I  had  no  thought  of  taking  his  life.  That  1  had  thrown 
him  over  the  cliff,  instead  of  on  the  ground,  was  purely  acci- 
dental. What  1  should  have  done  was  to  have  found  a  path 
down  to  the  beach,  and  seen  if  he  were  really  killed.  But  I 
shuddered  as  1  thought  it — no,  1  could  not  have  looked  upon 
that.  And  if  I  gave  myself  u|>  for  the  deed  1  had  done,-  who 
was  to  i)rove  it  was  not  premeditated  ?  He  was  niy  rival  :  1 
had  deliberately  come  to  Wychchtle  in  search  o{  iiim,  waylaid 
and  assaulted  him — the  circumstantial  evidence  would  be  agaii.it 


dying,  a  glimpse 


'M  FOND  A'/S.S\  AND    TIIF.N   IVE  SEVER."'        383 

mc,  and  en-  liing.  It  would  I)rc:ik  my  mother's  heart,  and  kill 
my  sister.  Uesides,  I  thought,  with  sullen  dog-edn.-ss,  he  had 
deserved  his  fate  ;  he  was  a  scoundrel— why  should  1  suttlr  lor 
what  was  an  accident  after  all  ?  I  would  think  no  more  a])out 
It,  It  was  (lone,  and  could  iicn  he  undone.  It  was  an  accident 
and  he  had  brought  it  on  himself— I  kept  repeating  that  ov.-r 
and  over  again. 

"  HiK  it  would  nf)t  do— it  never  has  done— jaidge  and  jury  have 
never  Iried  me  ;  hut  my  own  conscience  has,  and  I  stand  con- 
jl'inned  It  has  spoiled  my  life,  changed  my  nature— a  nature 
lu'tlcr  changed,  i)erhaps,  and  I  have  held  myself  and  my  passions 
and  my  tem[)or,  with  tiie  higher  help,  for  which  I  have  prayed 
better,  I  liust,  in  hand.  I  have  sufieied  for  what  1  have  done, 
I  have  re  pented.  Heaven  knows  there  has  been  no  time  since 
when  1  would  not  have  given  my  own  life  to  have  brought  his 
back.  When  I  pleaded  for  Mrs.  llarland,  I  saw  a  pa-illel  in 
our  two  cases,  and  it  was  for  myself  I  pleaded  ;  when  she  was 
sentenced,  as  still  guilty,  in  that  sentence  1  read  my  own  con- 
demnation. 

"  I  remained  in  Minnesota  nearly  seven  months— so  busy  I 
scarcely  had  tune  to  glance  even  at  the  daily  papers.  0\w^^  or 
twice  I  saw  a  brief  account  of  the  murder  or  accident,  no  one 
seemed  able  to  determine  which  ;  no  one  was  suspected  no 
one  arrested,  all  was  well .  If  any  one  had  been,  of  course  I'here 
would  be  no  alternative  but  to  go  at  once  and  speak  out  Hut 
no  one  was,  and  when  I  returned  to  New  York  the  whole  mat- 
ter was  a  thing  of  the  past.  1  went  back  to  the  office  and  re- 
sumed my  old  routine,  with  a  secret,  like  Mugene  Aram's,  in  my 
Heart  And  yet  knowing  that  I  had  never  meant  to  kill,  that  I 
would  have  shrunk  appalled,  even  in  the  hour  of  my  fiercest 
passion,  from  the  thought,  I  could  feel  altogether  guilty,  alto- 
gether unhappy.  And  as  years  went  on,  .... id  as  1  strove  to 
atone  by  a  better  life,  by  fidelity  to  all  duties,  as  ambitious 
tliouglits  and  hopes  absorbed  me,  1  gradually  grew— not  to  for- 
get— that  was  impossible,  but  to  look  back  only  with  remorse  fill 
sorrow  to  that  dark  night  of  my  life,  and  look  humbly  for  ])ar. 
i.on  to  Ilun  who  has  said,  'Though  your  sins  be  as  scarlet  they 
sliall  become  white  as  wooK' 

"  Dolly  I)e  Courcy  I  never  saw  again— not  once— until  that 
n;glU  last  week  when  I  saw  her  on  the  sla<re,  and  we  mutuallv 
lecogm/cd  each  otJier.  it  brought  back  so  vividly  all  that  was 
past  and  gone,  all  my  wrong-doing,  that  it  cost  me  an  effort  to 
&it  the  play  out.     From  that  night  my  insane  infatuation  for  her 


M^T-- 


n 


\\ 


■Nil 


384        "A  FOND  KISS,  AND    THEN  IVE  SEVER" 

died  a  natural  death  ;  it  seemed  as  if  my  honor  of  my  own  act 
had  killed  it.  I  could  not  diink  of  her  witlioiit  a  feeling  of  re- 
indsion.  I  felt  it  unjustly,  no  doubt,  as  I  looked  at  her  then. 
How  she  comes  to  know  anything  about  it  is  a  mvstery  to  me. 
J  do  not  believe  she  really  does  know.  She  may  suspect* 
knowing  my  jealousy— she  can  know  nothing  beyond. 

"  I  had  ceased  to  care  for  her— I  cared  for  no  one  else.  I 
had  made  up  my  mind  to  my  own  satisfaction,  never  to  marry. 
Law  should  be  my  love,  ambition  my  bride,  honors  my  children,' 
tlie  praise  of  men  my  home.  A  woman,  and  my  own  madness' 
had  spoiled  my  life,  no  other  should  ever  come  into  it; 
and  then,  at  the  height  of  all  these  fine  resolves,  my  wife,  my 
love,  I  met  yoii.  I  met  you  by  chance— if  anything  in'  this 
world  does  happen  by  chance -and  all  melted  before  your  blue 
eyes  and  radiant  smile,  as  snow  before  the  sun.  Did  I  fall  in 
love  with  you,  as  I  saw  you  standing,  tall  and  graceful,  and  fail 
as  a  hly,  before  Von  Ette's  picture?  I  don't  know.  I  know 
that  the  words  you  spoke  stabbed  me  like  a  knife—haunted  ma 
with  incessant  pain  until  I  sat  beside  you  in  Mrs.  Graham's 
home,  and  tried  to  bring  you  to  my  way  of  thinking.  You  were 
remembering  Bertie  Vaughan.  Ah,  Heaven  !  so  was  I,  and 
neither  knew  it.  Your  face  was  witli  me  incessantly— came 
between  me  and  my  books,  and  lit  the  dingy  office  with   its 

sweet  memory.     You  were  unlike  any  one  1  had  ever  known 

you  were  my  ideal  woman,  half-angelic,  half-womanly,    and— 
1  lost  my  head  again.     I  had  no  hope  of  ever  winning  you,  no, 
not  the  faintest.     1  saw  you  surrounded  by  such  suitors  as  Van 
Ciiyler,  admired  wherever  you  went,  rich,  beautiful,  well-born. 
What  was  I— what  had  I— that  I  should  presumptuously  hoi)e 
for  anything  beyond  a  kind   smile,  a  friendly   word  ?      Your 
choice  surprised  every  one— my  wife,  it  surprised  no  one  more 
than  It  did  myself.      1  struggled  with  my  ever-growing  insanity, 
as  I  called  it,  more  insane  in  a  ditferent  way  even  than  the  first, 
and  thought  1  had  strength  of  will  sufficient  to  master  it.     ]]ut 
I  found  it  was  every  day  mastering  me— that  each  time  I  saw 
you  I   grew  more  helplessly  powerless  and  enslaved,  that  my 
only  hope  was  in  llighl.     I  had  long  meditated  this  trip  to  Cali- 
fornia ;  t'le  chances  were  better  there,  success  more  rapid  anil 
assured — now  seemed  my  time.     I  was  telling  all  to  Lucy  that 
night,  my  love  and  my  struggles  ;  you  came   and— you  know 
the  rest.     Jt  was  as  if  an  angel  had  stooped  to  love  as  mortals 
love,  and  I  could  only  wonder  at  the  great  joy  that  had  come 
to  me  and  accept. 


«•//  FOND  KISS,  AND  THEN  WE  SEVER V  385 

"The  only  tliought  that  marred  my  happinefs  was  tlie 
tlioiighl  tliat  J  ought  to  tell  you  all,  to  lay  bare  my  secret,  and 
let  you  say  whether  it  was  sufticient  to  hold  us  asunder  forever. 
I  tried  one  night  and  you  stoi)pcd  me.  With  matchless  confi- 
dence and  generosity,  you  said  that  with  my  past  life  you  had 
nothing  to  do,  that  you  refused  to  listen,  that  love  and  fidelity 
were  all  you  asked,  and  1  was  weak,  and  grasi)edat  my  re[)rieve 
as  a  sentenced  n-an,  never  dreaming  of  die  terrible  truth. 

"You  had  once  lived  in  Wychcliffe,  you  had  once  before 
been  engaged  to  be  married,  and  the  man  had  died— that  told 
little  or  nothing.  The  man's  name  was  never  mentioned  between 
us -but  why  go  on?  You  will  believe  me  when  I  say,  had  I 
known  that  day  wiien  we  met  in  the  studio  what  J  know  now 
we  should  never  have  met  again  unless  1  came  to  you  and  con- 
fessed the  truth.  Even  had  1  loved  you,  I  would  have  dreaded 
such  a  marriage  as  much  as  you  could  have  done,  but  there  is 
a  retribution  in  these  things  that  works  its  own  way,  and  we 
are  husband  and  wife,  and  five  of  the  happiest  months  that  ever 
mortal  man  enjoyed  have  been  mine.  All  the  parting  and  the 
expiation  of  the  future  can  never  dim  the  bliss  of  their  memory. 
1  may  be  inost  miserable,  but  I  have  been  most  ha|)py." 

His  voice,  low  and  husky  mkI  hurried  through  it  aJl,  breaks, 
and  he  bows  his  forehead  01.  .je  arm  resting  on  the  chimney- 
l)iece,  and  there  is  silence. 

"The  blow  that  killed  Berne  Van-rhan  killed  also  your  father 
you  have  told  me,"  he  resumes.  '  .  thougiit  that  I  had  suf- 
fered m  the  past,  but  I  never  knew  what  suffering  was  until 
that  night  when  you  sat  on  my  knee,  your  head  on  iny  shoulder, 
and  mnocently  told  me  your  storv.  1  sat  that  night  long  after 
you  were  asleep,  love,  and  thought  of  ..-hat  I  should  do.  That 
we  must  part  was  certain,  that  you  must  know  the  truth  was  cer- 
tain, and  what  1  have  thougiit  of  long,  1  did  at  last.  I  meant 
to  have  told  you  then,  and  once  faidy  away  to  write  you  all, 
It  seemed  to  me  I  could  never  look  in  your  flice  and  break 
your  heart.  iUit  even  that  has  been  forced  upon  me  ;  it  is  part 
of  my  punishment,  and  a  very  hard  one  to  bear." 

Once  more  silenqe— she  never  mo\ed  nor  looked  up. 
"You  bound    yourself  by  a  pronr^e    beside    your    father's 
death-bed,"   Lewis  Nolan  goes  on,  "to  bring  to  justice  the  man 
who  caused  his  ndontfHl  imVc  A^>■^*^■^       ir..^.,  r..,.i    ^u-.- •.. 


pi( 


must  be  kei)t " 

She  lifts  her  head  and  looks  at  him,  such  agony  in  her  face 
as  It  breaks  his  heart  to  see. 

17 


1  n 


! 


i 


!Si  HI 


I 


3S6     "AS   ONE   WHOM  HIS  MOTHER   COMFORTETH.'* 

"  Oh,  forgive  me  ! "  he  cries,  "  I  know  that  you  cannot,  my 
own  wife.  I  would  give  my  life  for  you,  and  I  have  crushed 
every  hope  out  of  yours  forever." 

^  She   (hops  her  head  again,  and  once  more  there  is  silence. 
The  clock  on  the  mantel  strikes  three,  and  he  starts  up. 

•'  I  am  going  at  once,"  he  says  hurriedly  ;  "  every  moment  I 
linger  is  an  added  torture.  There  are  some  papers  in  my  study 
that  1  nuist  attend  to  before  I  leave." 

He  goes  with  the  words. 

Papers,  letters,  lie  strewn  over  his  writing-table  ;  he  turns  up 
the  gas,  sits  down,  and  for  half-an-hour  is  busy.  He  fills  all 
his  pockets,  and  then  still  rapidly  exchanges  his  full-dress  evening 
suit  for  street  wear,  buttons  up  an  overcoat,  and  hat  in  hand" 
returns  to  his  wife's  room.  She  is  lying  as  he  left  her,  she  looks 
as  if  she  never  cared  to  lift  her  head  again. 

"  Sydney,"  he  says,  "  I  am  going.  Will  you  try  not  to  hate 
me  for  what  I  have  done  ?  You  have  always  been  generous- 
will  you  not  be  generous  enough  now  to  say  one  good-bye  ?" 

She  rises  with  a  low,  sobbing  sort  of  cry,  and  Hings  herself 
upon  his  breast.  Her  arms  cling  round  his  neck  as  though  they 
would  never  loosen  their  hold,  but  she  does  not,  cannot°spcak 
a  word.  His  kisses  fall  on  her  lips  ;  her  bewildered  eyes  full  of 
an  agony  he  can  never  forget,  look  up  in  his  face. 

"  My  wife  !   my  wife  !  my  wife  !  " 

No  word  of  farewell  passes,  he  holds  her  strained  hard  for 
one  long  moment,  then  iilaces  her  gently  back  in  her  chair  :  her 
arms  fall  loosely,  her  eyes  follow  him,  her  white  lips  ate  incapa- 
ble of  uttering  a  word.  She  sees  him  leave  the  room,  hears  him 
go  out  of  the  house,  hears  the  door  close  behind  him,  and  still 
sits  motionless,  speechless,  staring  straight  before  her,  blankly, 
at  the  open  door. 


CHAPTER  XVn. 

"as  one  whom  his  mother  comforteth." 

OUCY  NOLAN  was  ailing  that  night  ;    those  dreadful 

^^-,J|     ^l>;isms  of  racking  spine  complaint,  agi^ravated  by  her 

^^i     ceaseless   hacking  cough,  were  back   to  torture  her. 


All  night  long,  while  suffering  of  another  kind,  infinitely 
1  Jid;„r  to  li-ar  than  the  most  torturing  physical  pain,  was  rend- 


Ifi  ^^ 


i_* 


MFORTETH» 


"AS  ONE    WHOM  Ills  MOTHER  COMFORTET/V    387 


ing  the  heart  of  Lewis  Nolan's  wife,  Lucy  lay  on  her  bed  and 
endured.     All    night    the    shaded    lamp    burned,  all  night  her 
mother  waf      :]  unweariedly  by  her  bedside,  and  it  was  only 
when   the  .  v  .  October  dawn  was  breaking  that  pain  ceased, 
and  sleep  uune  to   the  patient  eyes.     U'hen  her  mother,  ,,aIo 
and  fagged,  stole  down-stairs  to  begin  her  duties  of  the   day- 
She   threw  open   the  shutters,  unbolted  the  door,  and  stepped 
out  nuo   the   crisp,  sparkling  coldness  of  the   early  morning. 
1  he  sharp,  fresh  air  was  like  an  exhilarating  draught.     She  lin- 
g.-red  on    the   doorstep  watching  the  city  sky  flush  and  grow 
v/arm,  before  the  coming  of  the  red  round  sun.     Some  laborers 
rvent   straggling  by  to   their  work  ;  one   or  two  grimy  Dutch- 
women with  bags  passed,  raking,  as  they  went,  the  otial  of  the 
streets.     As  she  was  about  to  turn  into  the  house,  she  espied  a 
man   coming  toward  her,  with  something  oddly  familiar  about 

The  tall  figure  was  Lewis ;  but  surely  that  downcast  head 
and  lagging  walk  were  strangely  unlike  her  son's  erect  carria-^e 
and  quick,  hrm  step.  And  yet  it  was  Lewis ;  she  saw  that  with 
wonder,  and  some  alarm.  He  raised  his  eyes  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, and  came  forward  at  a  rapid  pace. 
^^_^-  Lewis  ! »  she  exclaimed,  startled  strangely  as  she  looked  at 

Haggard,  bloodless,  with  something  of  wildness  in  the  stead- 
tast  dark  eyes,  he  seemed  almost  like  an  apparition,  in  the  may 
ot  the  early  morning,  '  b    / 

''Go  in,  mother,"  he  said ;   "  I  have  something  to  tell  you  " 
She  obeyed  him.     They  entered  the  little  pador,  into  which 
me  nr.st  rays  ol  the  sun  were  shining. 

"  Speak  low  "  she  said,  remembering  even  in  her  anxiety  for 
one  child  the  illness  of  the  other.      "  Lucy  hJls  had  one  of  her 
bad  turns  all  night,  and  has  just  fallen   asleep.     What  is  it 
Lewis?  Sydney "  ' 

He  made  a  sudden,  almost  fierce  gesture,  that  stayed  the 
name  on  her  lips,  and  walked  to  the  window.  The  glovv  of  the 
eastern  sky  all  rose-red,  threw  a  fictitious  fiush  upon  the  face 
liiat  seemed  to  have  grown  worn  and  aged  in  a  night 

So,  standing  with  his  back  to  her,  his  eyes  on  that  lovely  ra- 
diance, he  si)oke  :  ^ 

"-  Mother,"  he  said  abruptly,  "I  am  going  away  " 
"  My  son  !  "  00.^ 

"  1  have  rejoined  my  old  company— I  leave  at  once-to-day 
11  when  the  war  ends,  there  is  an   end   of  me  also,  well   and 


■  tto'  i     i 


i           i 

■  u 

I-    J; 
i      ! 

'f 

Hi 


383     *'AS  ONE    WHOM  HIS  MOTHER   COMFORTETW* 

good  ;  it  will  be  far  the  easiest  way  of  soKIng  all  difficulties. 
If  there  is  not,  1  will  start  at  once  for  Sacrameiitc,  and  begin 
the  world  anew.  In  any  case  I  shall  not  return  to  New  York, 
so  that  this  is  my  leave-taking,  perhaps  for  all  time." 

She  dropped  into  a  chair — speechless.  He  had  spoken  with 
recklessness,  bitterness ;  he  had  suffered  almost  beyond  endur- 
ance in  the  hours  that  had  intervened,  hours  spent  in  wander- 
ing through  the  lonely,  melancholy  streets.  IJut  now,  at  the 
exceeding  bitter  cry  of  his  mother,  he  turned  quickly  around, 
himself  once  more. 

"Mother,  forgive  me,"  he  said,  shocked  at  his  own  words. 
"  1  have  been  too  abrupt — 1  ought  not  to  have  spoken  in  this 
way.  But  it  has  all  come  so  suddenly  upon  myself,  that  I  feel 
lialf  dazed.  After  all,  my  rejoining  the  army  ought  not  to 
shock  you  very  greatly.  It  is  only  what  1  have  contemplated 
long,  what  1  would  to  Heaven  1  had  done  a  year  ago." 

"Lewis,  my  son,"  his  mother  said,  looking  at  him  with  won- 
dering, terrified  eyes,  "  what  is  this  ?  What  is  the  meaning  of 
this  sudden  resolution  ?  For  it  is  sudden  ;  a  week  ago  you  had 
no  idea  of  forsaking  your  wife.  What  has  come  between  you 
now  ? 

She  saw  the  drawn  look  of  torture  that  flashed  across  his  face, 
saw  his  teeth  set,  and  his  hand  clench. 

"  A  secret  that  will  part  us  forever.     A  crime !  " 

"A  crime?" 

"  Ves,  one  of  the  darkest  of  crimes,  blood-guiltiness,  mother. 

Her  face  blanches,  her  lips  tremble,  her  eyes  are  riveted  in 
amaze  and  horror  upon  him. 

"  Vou  thought  1  had  no  secret  from  you — that  my  life  was  an 
open  record  for  all  men  to  read,  that  no  hidden  sin  lay  at  my 
door.  That  was  your  mistake.  Five  years  ago  1  killed  a  man, 
and  to-day  retribution  has  come  home  to  me." 

He  has  a  vague  feeling  that  those  things  should  be  broken 
to  her  gently,  but  he  cannot  do  it.  As  he  feels  them,  they 
must  come  out,  or  not  at  all.  For  his  mother,  she  sits  half- 
stunned,  half-bewildered,  dumb. 

"  1  shall  tell  you  the  story,  mother  ;  but  first  let  me  tell  you 
Sydney's.  You  may  not  know,  i)erhaps,  that  once  before  she 
was  a  bride — her  bridal  dress  on,  and  she  waiting  for  the  bride- 
groom, who  never  came.  The  man  could  not  come,  he  had 
been  ki'led  in  a  paroxysm  of  jealous  rage  the  night  before. 
The  shock,  the  shame,  the  horror  of  it  all,  brought  on  her  fluher's 
deatii.     On    his    dcalh  bed    his    last    iniun;tion    to    her    was, 


MFORTETW* 


ed  across  his  face, 


**AS  ONE    WHOM  HIS  MOTHER  COMFORTETH."     389 

to  bring  to  justice,  if  she  ever  met  hii-,  the  slayer  of  her  lover 
ilie  promise  was  made,  and  promises  to  the  dyin^  are  bindin-T* 
'\nd  last  night,  for  the  first  time,  she  met  and  knew  this  man'^' 
AJrs.  Nolan  sits  wuh  her  hands  damned,  listening  breathlessly 
to  t  lis  rapid,  almost  incoherent  story,  which  she  but  half  com- 
prehends. 

"Last  night  she  met  him,    mother— to  knoiu  him.     I,    her 
uisband,  am  the  man  whom  she  stands  pledged  to  deliver  up  to 
tiie  JUS  ice  of  the  law.     It  was  I  who  killed  h-r  lover,  the  nLht 
before  he  was  to  have  been  her  husband." 

Mrs.  Nolan  rises  up,  an  angry  liush  on  her  face,  an  excited 
gleam  in  her  eye. 

"  i.ewis,  1  do  not  understand  one  word  of  what  you  are  sayin.r 
Haveyor  been  drinking,  or  are  you  going  mad?  How  cali 
you  stand  there  and  tell  me  such  shocking  and  false  thin-s  ?" 

1  hey  are  not  flilse,  mother— there  is  no  such  hope   for  me 
as  that. 

His  steady  tone  stagger,  her.     She  shrinks  back   into  her 
cJuiir,  and  i)uts  her  hand  in  a  lost  way  to  her  head. 

"  Will  you  tell  me  again,  Lewis,  and  more  clearly,  please.     I 
CO  not  seem  able  to  understand   you.     Afy  son    a  murderer! 
u  V       --^  'Misunderstood  all  you  have  been  saying." 
"  Yes,  It  IS  hard  to  realize,  is  it  not  ?     It  is  hard  to  think  that 
one  sm,  done  years  ago  in  a  moment  of  passion,  atoned  for,  as 
1  luul  hoped,  should  break  so  many  innocent  hearts.     But   it   is 
tuie,  and  it  has  parted  me  and  my  wife  forever— it  .sends  me  an 
outcast  from  home  for  all  time.     My  flue   is  deserved-hers 
poor  innocent  child,  is  not.     I  ought  to  break   those   thin-s  to 
you,  I  suppose,  but  I  never  learned  how  to  break  things  :  1  can 
tell  you  in  no  odier  way  than  this." 

He  drops  into  a  seat,  for  he  is  dead  tired,  and  begins,  as  col- 
locted  y  as  he  can,  the  whole  most  wretched  narrative  of  mis- 
piacect  love  of  insane  jealousy,  of  ungovernable  passion,  and 
01  the  result.  She  sits  listening  with  strained  and  painful  at- 
tention, comprehending  at  last  the  whole  sad  history  of  passion 
lyicl  sm,  remorse  and  retribution.  And  when  the  story  is  done 
there  IS  sdence  again.  Mrs.  Nolan  sits  weeping,  without  a  word! 
such  tears  as  in  all  her  life  she  has  never  shed  before,  and  she 
has  been  a  woman  of  trouble,  acquainted  with  sorrow 

;;May  (kkI  forgive  you,  my  son  !  "   is  what  she  savs  at  last. 
Am  1  uKieeii  a  murderer?"  he  drearily  asks;  "have  I  all 
these  years  been  deluding  myself  with  sophistries?" 

"  A  murderer  '—no,  a  thousand  times  no  !  "  his  mother  cries 


m 


',! 

1 

r 

■'] 

!,i 

1 

jj 

1:   V 

1^1   ; 

■            k 

:  I 


39°     '*^S  O.VE    IV//OM  HIS  MOTHER   COMFORTETH}' 

ouf,  "  Heaven  foihid  !  The  sin  is  in  the  intention,  and  you  had 
no  intention  of  taking  this  man's  life.  All  the  same,  it  has  been 
taken,  and  here  at  least  it  seems  you  must  expiate  your  sin. 
Oil,  my  son  !  my  son  !   what  can  J  say  to  comfort  you  ?" 

"  It  is  past  ali  that,  mother — say  you  forgive  me,  before  I  go, 
and  try  and  comfort  my  wife — 1  ask   no  more." 

He  breaks  utterly  down  at  the  wcjrds,  at  the  thought  of  that 
beU)ved,  that  most  wretched  wife,  and  turns  away  and  bows 
his  Face  on  his  arm. 

"  My  Lewis,  my  boy,  it  is  the  first  real  sorrow  you  have  given 
nie  in  your  life.  I  forgive  you,  and  I  know  that  forgiveness, 
higher  and  greater,  will  not  be  refused.  1  will  care  for  your 
wife.  Oh,  poor  child,  what  a  blow  for  her  who  has  loved  you 
beyond  the  love  of  woman  ! " 

"  Hush  !  "  he  hoarsely  exclaims,  "  I  am  almost  mad  already 
— do  you  want  to  drive  me  quite." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  your  plans,  dear  ?  "  she  asks  gently,  infmite 
compassion,  infinite  yearning  mother-love  in  her  eyes. 

"  1  have  none.  I  join  my  regiment,  as  1  have  told  you,  at 
once  ;  beyond  that,  the  future  will  take  care  of  itself.  If 
things  end  as  I  wish,  there  will  be  no  need  of  further  plans.  If 
they  do  not,  1  shall  go  to  California,  and  there  begin  again. 
Our  parting  is  for  life,  that  you  must  see.  1  must  write  a  letter 
to  Oraham  explaining,  without  telling  the  real  cause  of  my 
abrupt  departure.  There  need  be  no  scandal  ;  1  have  simply 
gone  to  the  war,  as  is  all  men's  duty  nowadays.  For  my  wife," 
— a  pause  to  command  himself—"!  commit' her  to  your  care. 
She  has  youth,  she  has  strength,  and  she  has  limitless  wealth  ; 
sh.e  need  not  mourn  forever.  Persuade  her  to  travel,  mother,' 
to  go  abroad  again  to  her  Knglish  friends,  or  to  the  Continent! 
You  will  know  what  to  say  to  her  better  than  1  can  tell  you. 
1  am  not  worth  one  tear  from  those  pure  eyes.  There  are 
some  things  i  would  like  to  say  to  her ;  I  will  write  them  here 
before  I  go." 

He  sits  down  and  begins  to  work,  resolutely  summoning  all 
his  self-control.  H„-  wrues  his  letter  to  Mr.  Graham,  answers 
the  many  documents  he  has  brought  with  him  from  the  house, 
and  makes  all  into  a  neat  parcel  tor  the  post.  Then  he  bcnns 
that  other  letter.  He  writes  "  My  Dear  Wife,"  and  sits  staring 
at  the  words  as  if  they  held  some  si)ell  for  him  that  he  could 
not  break.  JUit  once  he  begins,  his  pen  (lies  over  the  paper, 
page  after  page,  it  is  the  last  he  ever  intends  to  write,  and  he 
pours  out  his  whole  heart  in  it,  as  even  his  wife  has  never  seei? 


FORTETH" 

ion,  and  you  had 
iame,  it  has  been 
opiate   your  sin. 
art  you  ?  " 
me,  before  I  go, 

thought  of  that 
away  and   bows 

'  you  have  given 

hat  forgiveness, 

11  care  for  your 

has  loved  you 

est  mad  already 

s  gently,  infinite 
r  eyes. 

Lve  told  you,  at 
e  of  itself.  If 
"ther  plans.  If 
re  begin  again, 
ist  write  a  k-tter 
al  cause  of  my 
1  have  siini)ly 
For  my  wife," 
r  to  your  care, 
mitless  wealth  ; 
travel,  mother, 
'  the  Continent. 

I  can  tell  you. 
es.  Tiiere  are 
'rite  them  here 

summoning  all 
raham,  answers 
from  the  house, 
Then  he  begins 
and  sits  staring 

II  that  he  coukl 
over  the  |)aper, 
o  write,  and  he 
has  never  seei? 


«« J5  ONE    WHOM  HIS  MOTHER  COMFORTETH:'    391 

it  before.     It  is  a  voluminous  epistle  l)cfore  it  is  done,  folded, 
sealed  and  addressed.     Then  he  holds  it  with  wistful,  yearning 


looking   at    the    name  his   hand    has   writtci 


.^Mliiey 


eyes, 

Nolan,"  (he  last  link  of  all  that  binds  him  and  his  wife  togellier 
now.  1  lis  mother  comes  in,  and  stoo[)s  and  kisses  him  tenderly 
as  he  sits.  With  homely,  motherly  care  that  is  better  than 
sentiment,  she  has  been  preparing  breakfast  for  her  boy,  a 
breakfast  he  used  to  like  when  he  was  all  her  own.  He  sits 
down  to  i»lease  her,  with  the  knowledge  that  a  journey  lies  be- 
fore him,  and  the  loss  of  strength  will  help  no  man  to  bear 
trouble.  But  Mrs.  Nolan  sighs  over  his  performance,  and  gazes 
at  him  anxiously  as  he  rises.     "You  eat  nothing,  my  son." 

"  Y(jur  cotTee  has  done  me  good.  Post  the  package  to 
Graham,  mother,  and  take  the  letter  to  Sydney  yourself.  1  will 
go  up  and  look  at  Lucy  before  I  leave." 

He  ascends  the  stairs  without  noise.  The  little  dainty  room 
is  darkened,  and  Lucy  lies  trantjuilly  asleep  afier  her  exhaust- 
ing night  of  i)ain.  How  placid,  how  jiure,  how  passionless  is 
that  wan  face.  He  stoops  gently  and  touches  his  lips  to  her 
thin  cheek.  She  stirs  restlessly,  but  does  not  awaken,  and  he 
goes,  as  he  has  come,  unheard. 

His  mother  is  crying  below.  She  has  striven  heroically  to 
kee|)  up,  but  nature  is  stronger  than  will.  He  takes  her  in  his 
arms  and  kisses  her. 

"  (iood-bye,  mother.  Forgive  me  and  pray  for  me.  I  will 
write  to  you  regularly,  and  you  will  tell  me  all  that  there  is  to 
tell.     Everything,  you  understand." 

"I  understand."  She  sobs  audibly^  in  a  heart-broken  way 
and  clings  to  him.  "Oh,  my  boy,  my  boy!  it  is  hard  to  let 
yoii  go." 

"  It  is  hard  for  me  ;  do  not  make  it  any  harder,  mother,"  he 
says,  in  a  tortured  voice,  and  she  opens  her  arms  and  lets  him 
go." 

"  Tlie  only  son  of  his  mother,  and  she  was  a  widow,"  and  the 
last  time  she  may  ever  see  him  this  side  of  the  grave.  Her 
eyes  are  blinded  with  tears  as  she  watches  him  out  of  sight. 
The  son  who  has  been  her  hope,  her  pride,  her  gladness  for 
seven  and-twenty  years.  She  watches  him  out  of  sight  as 
women  do  watch  the  men  they  love,  and  may  never  see  again, 
and  then  sits  down  and  cries  as  she  has  never  cried  in  all  her 
troubled  life. 


392        ««  THE  UGirr  IN   THE  DUST  LIES  DE.Wr 


!     r 


^^^^^^^1 

^^^^^H 

^^H^^^^B 

^bM^ 

I  ;, 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"the  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead." 

YING  motionless  against  the  cusliioncd  back  of  ?ie» 
chair,  white  and  still  ;  so,  when  morning  conies,  and  a 
servant  enters,  she  fmds  Lewis  Nolan's  wife.  She  has 
not  fainted,  she  has  not  been  insensible  for  one  mo- 
ment ;  she  lies  here  stunned.  Over  and  over  in  her  mind  the 
weary  hours  through,  the  words  he  has  said  keep  repeating 
themselves — the  words  that  divorce  them  forever. 

He  has  killed  liertie  Vaughan  ;  her  husband  is  the  man  siie 
stands  i)ledged  to  her  dying  father  to  deliver  over  to  justice ; 
he  has  left  her,  never  to  return.  These  three  things  follow  each 
other  ceaselessly  through  her  I'.-xzed  brain,  until  the  very  power 
of  thinking  at  ail  becomes  numb. 

Slie  opens  her  eyes  at  the  girl's  cry  of  consternation,  and 
rises  with  an  effort.  The  servant  speaks  to  her,  but  she  is  un- 
conscious of  what  she  says.  .She  goes  into  her  bedroom— it  is 
dark  and  still  here— and  lies  down  with  a  dull  sense  of  oppress 
sion  and  suffering  upon  her,  and  buries  her  foce  in   the  pillows. 

If  she  could  only  sleep,  if  she  could  only  for  an  hour  cease 
to  think.  Hut  she  cannot.  Like  a  machine  that  has  been 
wound  up  to  its  utmost  tension,  and  must  go  on  until  it  runs 
itself  down,  so  she  thinks,  and  thinks,  and  thinks.  Where  is 
Lewis  now  ?  VVill  it  be  wrong  for  her  to  think  of  him  after  tjiis, 
to  love  him,  to  pray  for  him  ?  If  so,  she  will  do  wrong  all  her 
life  long.  Is  she  committing  a  sin  in  disobeying  her  father's 
last  conniiand  ?  How  strange,  how  strange  that  Lewis  should 
have  been  the  one  to  throw  Bertie  over  the  clitf.  Poor  IJertie  ! 
how  fond  and  proud  they  all  were  of  him  once — her  father,  and 
mother,  and  she  too. 

He  rises  before  her,  the  blonde,  boyish  beauty  ofhisflice,  his 
fan-  curling  hair  and  merry  eyes.  It  was  a  dreadfiil  flue  ;  and 
Lewis,  her  Lewis,  whom  she  has  revered  and  honored  as  some- 
thing more  than  man,  his  hand  is  red  with  Eertie's  blood. 
Thought  becomes  such  torture  that  she  presses  both  hands  upon 
her  tenii)les,  striving  by  main  force  to  shut  it  out.  She  is  still 
lying  here  when  Mrs.  Nolan  reaches  the  hoube  and  goes  up  to 
her  room. 

"  My  own  dear  child  ! " 


dead:* 


**Tl/E  LIGHT  IN  THE  DUST  UTS  DEAD" 


Z'n 


\D," 

d  back  of  ?ic'f 
g  conies,  and  a 
wife.  She  has 
io  for  one  nio- 
Iier  mind  the 
<eei>  repeating 

s  the  man  she 
vcr  to  justice  j 
ngs  follow  each 
he  very  power 

ternation,  and 
but  she  is  un- 
bedroom — it  is 
Ase  of  ojipres- 
in  the  pillows, 
^n  hour  cease 
that  has  been 
1  until  it  runs 
ks.  Where  is 
"him  after  tjiis, 
'  wrong  all  her 
!g  her  father's 
Lewis  should 
Poor  IJertie ! 
her  father,  and 

ofhisfl\ce,  his 
tlfijl  fate  ;  and 
ored  as  sonie- 
iertie's  blood, 
th  hands  upon 
.  She  is  still 
id  goes  up  to 


Th  :•  v-hite  face  lifts,  the  eyes  look  at  her  so  full  of  iiifiiu"tc 
misery  that  tears  spring  to  those  of  the  elder  woman.  She 
puts  her  arms  about  her  and  kisses  the  blanched  lips. 

"Sydney,  my  dearest  child,  what  shall  I  say  to  you?  How 
shall  1  comfort  you  ?  May  Heaven  help  you — you  must  look 
for  \ our  comfort  there." 

"Has  he  gone  ?"  Sydney  says,  in  an  odd,  hollow  voice  that 
startles  even  herself. 

"  Yes,  dear— Heaven  help  him  !  He  came  to  nie  at  daybreak 
tins  morning  and  lold  me  all.  Are  you  angry  with  him,  Sydney  ? 
Oh,  if  you  knew  how  he  suffers  you  would  not  be." 

"Angry  with  him  ?"  she  repeats,  in  a  dreary  sort  of  wonder. 
"Angry  wnh  Lewis  ?     Oh,  no  !  " 

"  It  was  a  terrible  thing.  I  )o  you  not  think,  my  dearest  daugh- 
ter, that  it  is  almost  as  bitter  a  blow  to  n)e  as  to  you?  I  have 
been  so  proud  of  my  boy,  of  his  talents,  of  the  praise  men  gave 
him  ;  he  was  such  a  good  son  always,  so  free  from  the  vices  of 
most  young  men.     And  now " 

JUit  her  voice  breaks,  and  the  tears  gush  forth  again,  none  the 
less  heart-rending  for  being  so  (juiet. 

Hut  Sydney  does  not  cry.  She  looks  at  her  in  the  same 
drearily  dry-eyed  way,  in  a  sort  of  wistful  wonder  and  envy  at 
her  tears. 

"1  vjannot  cry,"  she  says,  wretchedly,  with  her  hand  on  her 
heart.  "  I  seem  to  ache  here,  but  I  don't  feel  like  crying  at  all 
Jt  was  the  same  when  JJertie  was  killed,  and  papa  lay  dying  and 
dead.  They  thought  1  was  hard  and  cold,  because  when  all 
wept  I  sat  like  a  stone.  I  feel  the  same  now.  And  mostly  I 
cry  for  such  little  things." 

She  sighs  heavily,  and  lies,  in  a  tired  way,  back  among  the 
pillows.  She  recalls  how  she  sat  and  wept  when  poor  mamma 
died,  lonely  and  sorrowing,  but  without  this  miserable,  unendur- 
able aching  of  the  heart. 

"  Plave  you  had  breakfast  ?"  Mrs.  Nolan  asks,  more  troubled 
by  this  apathetic  despair  than  by  any  hysterical  outburst  of 
grief. 

II  No,  I  was  not  hungry.  .  Is  it  past  break f^ist-time  ?" 
"  It  IS  two  o'clock,  and  you  have  fasted  a  great  deal  too  long, 
VVe  will  be  having  you  sick  on  our  hands,  and  that  won't  help 
matters."  Mrs.  Nolan  rings  the  bell,  and  wii)es  away  all  traces 
ol  (ears,  and  orders  strong  cofifee  and  toast.  '  "  1  cannot  nurse 
two  m\  ahds  at  once,"  she  says,  forcing  a  smile,  "  so  I  must  keep 
you  up.  Poor  Lucy  was  in  wretched  pain  all  night." 
17* 


i  i 


394         "  THE  LIGHT  IN   THE  DUST  LIES  DE^.D^ 

"Ah!  poor  Lucy!  dear  Lucy!  patient,  gentle  Lucy!  does 
she  know?  " 

"Yes,  dear.  I  told  her  just  before  I  came  away.  She  was 
asleej)  when  Lewis  left,  and  he  kissed  her  good-bye  without 
awakening   her." 

A  cjuiver  passed  over  Sydney's  face.  She  was  thinking  of 
their  own  hist  parting. 

"  How  does  she  bear  it?" 

"As  she  bears  all  things— with  angelic  patience.  In  long 
suffering  my  child,  Lucy  has  learned  resignation,  that  virtue 
which  some  one  beautifully  calls  '  i)utting  God  between  our- 
selves and  our  troubles,'  You  must  learn  it,  Sydney,  That, 
and  that  alone,  will  enable  you  to  bear  this,  and  all  the  other 
borrows  of  life." 

"  Life  can  have  no  other  sorrow  like  this,  mother." 

"  The  lesson  we  must  all  learn,  dear  child,  sovMier  or  later,  is 
endurance.  You  must  lay  yoxw  sorrows  at  the  feet  of  Him  who 
bore  our  sorrows,  and  look  for  help  antl  comfort  there.  Here  is 
a  letter  Lewis  left  for  you  this  morning;  you  will  read  it  when 
1  am  gone." 

She  draws  back  for  a  second,  with  a  startled  look,  and  gazes 
at  it. 

"  May  I  ?  "   she  says.     "  Will  it  be  right  ?  " 

"  Right !  Right  to  take  your  liusband's  letter  !  My  child,  is 
your  mind  wandering  ?  1  )oes  your  duty  as  a  wife  cease  because 
you  have  discovered  a  sin  in  your  husband's  life  ?  " 

"  lUit  it  was  like  no  other,"  Sydney  says,  wildly,  "and  it 
must  part  us  forever." 

"  1  am  ve.y  sorry  to  hear  it.  But  that  is  a  question  of  the 
future,  for  thought,  and  humble  prayer.  Just  now  you  can  de- 
cide nothing.  Here  come  your  coffee  and  toast.  Now,  Syd- 
ney, 1  shall  expect  you.  for  my  sake,  to  eat  and  drink." 

"  I  will  try  to,"  Sidney  says,  submissively.  She  rises  in  bed  ; 
Mrs.  Nolan  bathes  her  face  and  hands,  and  [)laces  the  tray 
before  her.  She  is  thirsty,  and  drinks  the  colfee  eagerly,  but 
she  cannot  eat.  With  dift'iculty  she  swallows  a  mouthful  or 
two,  and  looks  beseechingly  up  in  the  other's  fa"e.  "1  can- 
not," she  says  ;  "at  least,  not  now  ;  later,  I  will  try." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear.  I  wish  I  coiild  stay  with  you,  but  I 
cannot.  Would  you  not  like  to  come  with  me,  and  see  laicy  ? 
biie  asked  me  to  bring  you  back  if  you  were  able  to  come. 
Will  you  not,  my  child  ?  Order  the  carriage  and  come  and  stay 
with  us  for  a  few  days." 


•i.    »t 


look,  and  gazes 


"  THE  LIGHT  /y   THE   DUST  LIES  DEAD."        395 

IJiil  Syiliu-y  shakrs  her  licrad,  and  turns  away. 

"No,  niolhcr.  Do  not  feci  Imrt— Init  1  caiiiiot  <;o,  cannot 
leave  hoiu'',  1  am  bett.,'r  here,  better  alone.  1  must  be  alone 
for  a  while.  No  one,  not  even  Lucy,  can  help  me  bear  niv 
trouble  yet." 

"Poor  child  !"  Lewis  Nolan's  mother  stands  and  looks  at 
her  with  inlinite  moliier  pity  in  her  kind  old  face.  VViiat  can 
.she  say — what  can  she  do  for  tliis  stricken  heart?  And  only 
yesterday  life  seemed  to  hold  all  of  hapi)iness  one  life  can  ever 
hold. 

"  I  am  half  afraid  to  leave  you,"  slie  says,  in  a  troubled 
voice.  "  You  ought  not  to  be  left  alone.  Ai'id  it  is  so  dilikull 
for  me  to  come  often." 

Sydney  llings  her  arms  aliout  her  with  a  tearless  sob. 
"  Dear  niotlier—dear,  tlioughtful  mother,  do  not  tear  for  me. 
I  am  not  so  weak  as  you  think.     Oidy  leave  me  to  myself  for  a 
little.     Indeed  I  am  better  alone." 

Mrs.  Nolan  goes,  and  Sydney  has  her  desire  ;  she  is  alone. 
The  hours  pass,  tiie  evening  falls.  Teddy,  who  has  been 
clamoring  for  iier  all  day,  makes  his  way  at  Uuni^ight  time 
into  her  room,  but  she  neither  hears  nor  heeds  him.  The  ser- 
vants look  at  each  other,  and  whisper  and  wonder.  Something 
has  happened  between  master  and  missis,  and  master  has  gone, 
and  missis  isn't  lit  to  rise  off  her  bed. 

The  night  passes,  another  day  breaks.  Sydney  rises  and 
dresses,  dry-eved  and  ghastly  pale.  When  breakfast  time 
comes  she  sits  down  with  Teddy  to  that  meal. 

"Was  the  matter  wiz  you,  Auntie  Sydney?"  is  the  burden 
of  Tetlily's  wondering  cry  ;  "  and  where's  Uncle  Lewis  ?  I 
wants  Uncle  I.ewis.  Say,  Auntie  Syd,  where's  Uncle  Lewis?" 
The  child's  reiterated  question  grows  so  torturing  that  she  is 
forced  to  send  him  away  at  last. 

An  hour  or  two  later  brings  once  more  her  mother-in-law, 
lo(jking  wretchedly  worried  and  anxious.  Sydney  is  sitting 
listlessly  in  the  chair  in  which  she  sat  when  her  life  was  crushed 
out,  as  it  seems  to  her,  by  that  dreadful  story  ;  her  hands  folded 
loosely  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  lixed  on  a  portrait  of  her  husband 
on  the  wall.  She  has  not  read  his  letter— she  feels  no  desire 
to  read  it ;  she  is  still  striving,  and  still  unable,  to  realize  all 
the  horror  of  the  past  forty-ciglit  hours.  She  lifts  two  listless, 
upaiiietic  eyes  to  the  mother's  face. 

"  Is  Lucy  better?"  she  asks. 

"  Lucy  IS  better  in  body,  but  suffering  naturally  in  mind— 


I    A 


If 


t  I 


►I 


Ik  -< 


J96        ••  r//E   LIGHT  IN  rilE  DUST  LIES  DllAPy 

^wi   lin^  n  'ire  for  you  than  for  any  one  uIh;.     W\\\  you  not 
("      •  wi'      mu  f(»  (lay,  Sidney  ?" 

I  Sydney  w*'arily  shakes  her  head, 

viiv^  ne  a  Httle  Ion  -.  r,  mother,  to  think  it  «nit  by  myself, 
/t  IS  so  hau'  to  icali/.e  it  all.  'I  i.  blow  was  so  sudden  that  I 
feel  crushed— stunnrd." 

She  is  firm  in  her  re*ioIve,  and  once  more  Mrs.  Nolan  leaves 
lu  r,  sadly  troubled  What  a  miserable  business  it  all  is.  How 
t«:rriblf  to  ihink  th.K  the  ui)^^)verned  passion  of  a  moment 
Mionid  wreck  two  lives  forever. 

'Ih<  ncwss|)reads  that  Mr.  Nu.  ;n  his  rejoined  the  army,  and 
that  AKs.  Nolan  is  inconsolable  over  his  dei)artnre.  Mrs.  and 
Miss  Macgregor  call,  and  Mrs.  Nolan  is  at  home.  Her  sorrow 
she  cannot  forget  is  also  her  secret ;  Lewis'  honor  and  safety 
are  m  her  hands.  Whatever  she  may  sutler,  though  she  never 
meet  hun  more,  no  one  must  sus|)ect  that  oihcr  than  natural 
grief  at  [)artnig  is  in  her  heart.  She  comes  down  as  carefully 
dressed  as  usual,  to  meet  them,  but  at  sight  of  her  both 
ladies  utter  a  simultaneous  exclamation. 

'I  My  dear  Sydney,  surely  you  have  been  ill !  " 

She  is  so  worn,  so  wasted,  so  white,  so  changed  in  three  days, 
that  both  sit  and  look  at  her,  honestly  shocked. 

"No,"  Sydney  answers,  "I  have  not  been  ill." 

She  leans  her  head  against  the  blue  satin  back  of  her  c'lair, 
as  il  even  to  sit  upright  were  a  painful  effort. 

"  We  were  very  much  surprised  to  hear  of  Mr.  Nolan's  de- 
l)arture,  my  dear  Sydney,"  says  Mrs.  Macgregor,  smoothly,  and 
walchmg  her  with  a  cat-like  gleam.  "  A  very  sudden  decision, 
was  It  not  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all.     He  has  been  talking  of  it  from  the  first." 
"  Ah  !  we  all  know  what  it  is  to  have  our  dear  ones  in   dan- 
ger.    Poor  Dick  !"  sighs  Dick's  mother,  with  real  feeling. 

"  I  wish  my  dear  one— meaning,  of  course,  Mr.  Vanderdonck 
—would  take  it  into  his  head  to  go  three  hours  after  the  cere- 
mony. With  what  Spartan  generosity  would  1  not  offer  uj)  my 
bridegroom  upon  the  altar  of  my  country,"  says  the  vivacious 
K  atherine. 

The  call  is  short,  for  Sydney's  responses  are  monosyllabic  ; 
she  looks  cold,  and  wretched,  and  ill,  through  it  all,  the  very 
ghost  of  her  own  bright  self. 

"And  this  is  to  be  111  love  !"  sa)s  Katherine,  with  her  \  o  ,t 
conteinptucHis  shrug,  ''nuiiiks  and  praise  lie  that  1  ncscrfcil 
the   tender  passion.     She  looks  as  if  she  might  safely  go   into 


! 


THE  ucirr  m  Tm-:  dust  ur:s  dead. 


hex  colfin  and  the  lid  hy  screwed  down.     Aft 


jyr 


nintnmony,  too  I 


t-T  six      ,,  i,(|,s  ,,f 


I  l)d 


th 


icvc  there  is  somctliiii^  more  under  thi;;   th 


c  eye,    s;iys  inanima,  oiaciiliuly.     "1  i 


)ftlKlt 


In  th 


aij   ineetj 
lever  liked  the  looks 


young  m;in.     in  me  orduiary  course 
jjneye  for  h.s  dei.art.ue  ;  h„f    there   in  -'.uething^morVthan 
wifely  jrncf  ui  that  face,  or  I  ;.,..  -Mistaken   -  **  " 

Mrs   (;raham  came  too,  full  of  syM.,,athy  for  Mrs.  Nolan,  and 
of  prule  and  pra.se  for   Lewis.     Sydney    listened   drearily   to  i 
.III,  t.  ed  to  answer,  and  was  glad  when  it  was  over,  and  she  was 
left  alone  once  more. 

On  the  fifth  (lay  she  went  out  for  the  first  time,  and  made 
heruav   to  the  cottage  to  see    Faicy.     V/ithout  a  word  I,ury 
opened  her  arms    and  Sydney   went   into  then,   and  lay  si  ill 
i  he  mother  left  them  alone-if  any  one  could  help  this  dumb 
ton  or  ot  pa.n,  ,t  was  Lucy-she  would  not  interfere 

She  was  right  Seated  on  a  hassock  bes'i<lo  Lucv's  chair 
Lucy  softly  tuuch.ng  the  fair  head  that  drooped  on  her  knee 
\oZ  r'"ri  ^'  ^^"'' -^'^•^■t'y^P'-'^^king,  the  first  ray  of  light  seemed 

air   tearless,  speechless  des|)air,   an  agony   of  loss,   or  bew.I. 
cleied  misery    too  great  for  tears  or  words. 

%ly.         Rc'Miember  you  have  never  passed  a  night  here  yet.     It 
IS  so  lonely  for  you  in  that  great  empty  house." 

\JT    U'    ,^!:1'=^''"  ,<^'««^^'^'  tlie  widowed  wife's  face.     Ay, 
lonely  indeed  ;  lonely  forever  more  ^' 

her  troubled  soul,  the  hrst  unbroken   sleep   that   had  come   to 

her  su.ce  that  night  refreshed  her.     She  had  knelt  by  tl  e  be  L 

s  <le  with  clasped  hands  and  bent  head,  with  no   words   on  her 

I's,  but  bowing  down  body  and  soul  at  the  foot  of  the   Cross 

'iU7'n       Tr"V" ''' '""^"^^'^  ^"'^ '^^''P   to   that   great   love 
that  never  fails,  when  earthly  loves  decay."     And   widi  nex^ 

bcemed  to  awake  n.  her  soul. 

"  ILavc  you  read  the  letter  Lewis   left  for  you,    Sydney?" 
Lucy  asked  before  they  i)arted.  -yontyr 

Sy^lney's  lijis  «iiiivered. 

"  Not  _yet,"  slu-  said.     "  I  could  not.     I  was  not  able." 


'  Read 


thi 


It  to-(!ay,  dear.     See  what  h 


ng  he  asks  )ou  to  do  for  h 


c  says,  and  if  iheie  is  any- 


douig  It.     And  keep  Teddy  with 


im,  you  will  be   the  happier    foi 
you— poor   little   fellow:  it  is 


m 


398  "/7  IS   GOOD  10  BE  LOYAL  AND  TRUE:' 


cruel  to  nt\^!cct  him  and  imike  him  suffer,  A  child  is  the  besl 
companion  in  the  world,  too." 

Sydney  goes,  feeling  strengthened  and  lightened  somehow, 
and  obeys  all  orders.  She  goes  to  see  Teddy,  who  is  in  trouble 
on  his  own  account,  his  frisky  "  wocking  hoss "  having  just 
pitched  Iiim  heels  over  head.  He  is  kissed,  and  comforted,  and 
set  right  side  up  again,  and  then  Sydney  wanders  away  to  her 
husband's  study,  and,  in  the  room  sacred  to  his  use,  reads  the 
letter. 

It  is  very  long,  and  inex])ressibly  tender.  It  shows  her  his 
heart  as  she  has  i.ever  knov/n  it  before.  And  all  at  once,  at 
some  loving,  patiietic  words,  at  the  old  pet  name,  "  my  prin- 
cess," she  breaks  down  ;  and  a  very  tempest  of  tears  and  sobs 
washes  away  the  darkness  of  despair.  The  worst  is  over,  the 
blow  has  fallen,  and  she  knows  he  is  dearer  to  her  a  hundred- 
f<j!d  than  ever  before.  She  sits  there  for  hours,  and  an  uplifted, 
subhmated  feeling  comes  in  ])lace  of  the  tearless,  hopeless  ap- 
alliy  that  has  hekl  her  so  long.  She  will  begin  her  life  anew, 
ai)art  from  him  in  this  world  if  it  must  be,  and  yet  united  more 
closely  than  before  in  heart.  In  heli)ing  others  she  will  forget 
lier  own  sorrow — in  doing  gooil,  peace  may  return  even  to  her. 
She  will  learn  to  say,  "Thy  Will  be  done,"  and  kiss  the  rod 
that  smites  her.  She  will  possess  her  soul  in  i)atience,  and 
wait  ;  and  if  never  here,  at  least  in  the  true  Fatherland,  where 
all  are  forgiven,  where  parting  and  pain  come  not,  her  husband 
will  be  hers  once  more. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

*'  rr  IS  GOOD  TO  be  loyal  and  true." 


ARIA'  in  tile  r)e<:embcr  of  that  year,  some  who  read  this 
may  recall  a  fashionable  wedding,  with  which  the  pajjers 
of  that  day  rang.  1 1  was  a  magnificent  affair,  quite  regal 
really.  I'or  once  in  his  life,  old  Vanderdonck  did  the 
handsome  thing,  came  down  regardless  of  expense,  and  awoke  to 
iind  iiimself  famous — for  one  day  at  least.  The  beauty  of  the 
Lricic,  uio  woddirig-ri)ije,  wreath,  and  veil,  im|)orted  from  Paris, 
the  great  wealll)  of  the  bridegroom,  combined  to  make  it  an  event 
of  profound  interest  in  certain  circles.     Outsiders  might  note  the 


A  child  is  the  besl 


;htcned  somehow, 
/,  who  is  in  trouble 
lioss"  having  just 
md  comforted,  and 
ders  away  to  her 
lis  use,  reads  the 

It  shows  her  his 
md  all  at  once,  at 
name,  "my   |)rin- 

of  tears  and  sobs 
mist  is  over,  the 
;o  her  a  hundred- 
rs,  and  an  ii[)lifted, 
less,  hopeless  ap- 
;in  her  life  anew, 
d  yet  united  more 
lers  she  will  forget 
elurn  even  to  her. 
and  kiss   the   rod 

in  patience,  and 
^^"atherland,  where 
:  not,  her  husband 


rRUE." 

Dine  who  read  this 
1  which  the  j)apers 
taftair,  quite  regal 
iderdonck  did  the 
nse,  and  awoke  to 
rhe  beauty  of  the 
orted  from  Paris, 
o  make  it  an  event 
ers  might  note  the 


••/7-  JS    GOOD    TO  BE  LOYAL  AND   TRUE."        399 

triHing  disparity  of  years,  some  half  a  century,  more  or  less  be- 
twcen  the  happy  pair-miglit  sneer  about  May  and  December, 
make  cynical  allusions  to  selling  and  buying— but  these  sarcastic 
people  were  mostly  peoi)le  who  knew  nothing  at  all  about  it  To 
the  initiated  it  was  the  bridegroom  who  was  sold,  not  the  bride. 
1  oor  old  V  anderdonck-in  snowy  front  and  waistcoat,  a  small 
koh-i-noor  abiaz;  on  his  aged  breast,  wiUi  his  long  white  hair 
and  wrinkled,  white  face— looked  beautifully  clean  and  idiotically 
happy  A  senile  chuckle  was  on  that  old  foce,  as  he  waited  for 
his  bride  at  the  chancel-rail;  and  Katie,  tall  and  magnificent,  in 
one  of  Worth  s  chefs.d'mnvre,  swei)t  superbly  up  the  broad  nave, 
with  Mendelssohn's  "Wedding  March"  thundering  from  the 
organ-loft,  and  the  peal  of  the  bridal  bells  outside. 

l\^Q  church  was  a  jam  ;  and  as  the  bride  floated  by  in  "gleam 
of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls,"  an  audible  murmur  of  "How 
lovely  1     ran  through  the  house.     These  are  the  hours  in  which 
we  are  made  indeed  to  feel  that  virtue  is  its  own  reward,  and 
that     latient  waiters  are  no  losers."     Long  and  unweariedly 
hac    this  vvise  virgm  angled  for  her  prize  ;   long  had  it  hung 
tanta  izingly  just  within  and  just  without  her  grasi) ;  but  the  lish 
was  hooked  at  last,  and  brought  safe  and  gasping  upon  the 
ma  nmonial     shore.       Perhaps     these    pious     thou^dits     were 
Katheriue  s  own,  as— a  soft   flash  of  exultation  in  her  eves   a 
glowot  tnum^jh  on  her  cheeks-she  heard  that  swelling  n-ur- 
imir  and  felt  she  was  repaid  for  the  toil  of  many  a  weary  year 
here   were    present  a    great    throng    of    the    friends  and 
iclatives  of  the  bride.     Her  mamma  among  them,  with  her  ex- 
pensive wedding  handkerchief  to  her  hard  old  eyes,  not  used  to 
nmislure.      It  they  were  wet  now,   the  tears  were  crystal  drops 
ol  purest  graMtude  and  joy.  ^ 

\Vhat  mother  would  not  have  wept  to  see  her  dariing,  her 
one  ewe  lamb,  safely  sheltered  from  the  storms  of  life  in  inanlv 
,  aiH   marital  arms  and  with  live  thousand  a  year  pin-money  set- 
•     ed  on  her  for  hfe  ?     Uncle  Grif  gave  the  bride   awa)',  and 
t  emhlal  more  than  she  did  when  doing  it,  and  wiped  the  drops 
I  o    noisture  from  his  poor  bald  brow.     Captain  Dick  had  bein 
,  b  wdcn,  but  Captain  Dick  had  sent  back  a  grumbling,  misanthro- 
^  PC   and  altogether  unfeeling  refusal.     He  had  never  had  any 
las  e  tor  farces  or  foolery ;  poor  old  Vanderdonck  wasn't  a  bad 
sort  of  old  auiler,  as  old  duffers  went.     He  didn't  care  al,out 
lakmg  a  journey  of  so  many  miles  to  witness  his  misery.     Dick 
was  m  the  reprobate  state  of  mind  concerning  these   delicate 
mailers  ot  sentiment  and  settlements,  rade  young  men  do  at 


400        «'/7'  IS   GOOD    TO  BE  LOYAL  AND   TRV'E» 


m 


II  \ 


\ 


^^^^^^H^^B^^^^^^^^^^^K^  M 

\ 

^^^B      imR  I 

^■HjHI 

^^^^^^B          lillln  IP^  J 

! 

times  get  into.  Mis  good  mother's  training  had  been  thrown 
away  upon  him;  he  had  refused  point  blank  to  make  up  tc 
Emmy  Vinton,  wlio  was  an  heiress  too,  just  before  his  depar- 
tnre  ;  he  even  went  so  far,  in  his  coarse  camp  language,  as  to 
designate  the  whole  affair  as  a  "beastly  sell." 

It  was  a  painful  letter,  very  painful,  and  was  rendered  none 
the  less  so  to  Mrs.  Macgregor  by  Katherine  informing  her 
coolly  there  was  nothing  to  be  angry  at,  Dick  was  i)erfectly 
right. 

So  Dick  was  not  there  ;  but  everybody  else  was — among 
them  Mrs.  Lewis  Nolan,  cousin  of  the  bride,  whose  own  mar- 
riage, in  a  different  way,  had  been  etjually  sensational,  and  whose 
beauty  and  wealth  had  been  so  much  talked  of.  People  looked 
at  her  eagerly  on  this  occasion,  and  those  who  saw  her  for  the 
lirst  time  were  apt  to  be  disappointed. 

"  T/iat  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Nolan— that  pale,  almost  sickly- 
looking  girl  ?  Absurd  !  She  is  no  more  a  beauty  than— than 
1  am." 

Young  ladies  said  this,  and  scoffed  forever  after  at  the  legend 
of  her  refusing  the  peerless  Van  Cuyler.  Matrons  shook  their 
heads,  and  wiiispered  ominously:  "Consumption,  or  perhaps 
heart  disease  ;  these  transparent  comi)lexions  always  foretell 
si)eedy  death."  But  men  looked  at,  and  admired  that  frail, 
spi  -tuelle  loveliness,  that  soft-cut  youthful  mouth,  around  which 
lines  of  pain  were  drawn,  a  mouth  that  seemed  to  have  forgot- 
ten how  to  smile,  at  those  deep  blue  eyes,  from  whose  sad 
dei)ths  some  abiding  sorrow  looked  out. 

"  1  never  saw  any  one  so  changed,  many  i)eoi)le  said.  "  I 
attended  a  ball  she  gave,  shortly  after  her  marriage,  and  you 
would  scarcely  know  her  for  the  same  creature.  That  was  a 
tace  of  radiant  beauty  and  happiness  ;  this,  why  this  is  the 
face  of  a  corpse  almost,  tricked  out  in  jewels,  and  laces,  and  a 
silk  shroud." 

"  My  dear  sir,  you  have  heard  of  the  youth  who  loved  and 
who  rode  away  ?  well,  that  is  precisely  the  case  here.  Her 
knight  has  gone  to  the  wars,"  gayly  says  the  bride,  at  the  break- 
liist  half  an  hour  later  to  one  of  these  wondering  inquirers  ;  and 
the  old  sarcastic  shrug  of  the  bare  plump  shoulders  accents  the 
vvoids. 

"  But  surely  that  is  not  the  reason  of  so  great  a  change," 
says  the  gcntlcinan  incredulously,  looking  across  and  ihiough  a 
stack  of  cut  liowers  that  stands  between  him  and  that  fair,  pale 
face. 


\ND    TRUE." 

ig  had  been  thrown 
lank  to  make  up  to 
1st  before  his  depar- 
:anip  kxngiiage,  as  to 
1." 

was  rendered  none 
L'rine   informing  her 

Dick  was  perfectly 

ly  else  was — among 
de,  whose  own  niar- 
nsalional,  and  whose 
I  of.  People  looked 
who  saw  her  for  the 

pale,  almost  sickly- 
beauty  than — than 

r  after  at  the  legend 
Matrons  shook  their 
im[)tion,  or  perhaps 
ions  always  foretell 
admired  that  frail, 
louth,  around  wliich 
ued  to  have  forgot- 
es,  from  whose  sad 

■  people  said.  "  I 
marriage,  and  you 
ture.  That  was  a 
is,  why  this  is  the 
Is,  and  laces,  and  a 

ith  who  loved  and 
e  case  here.  Her 
bride,  at  the  break- 
ring  inciuircrs  ;  and 
oulders  accents  the 

o  great  a  change," 
MOSS  and  ihiuugh  a 
and  that  fair,  pale 


"IT  IS  GOOD   TO  BE  LOYAL  AND   TRUE."        40I 

"The  only  reason,"   answers  Mrs.  Vanderdonck    with  1,-., 
most  c.u.st,c  laugh.     "  Oh,  you  n.ay  wear  tim  Im  diev"^ 

Yc'^  id>:ira  bit  of /rc!.^  r'^"'[  ^"""  •'    ^"'^^'  ^^  l'-^-->'  -'^e- 
vorK  ul>ll   a  bit  of  Arcadia,  a  love  sonnet,   thismarriaue  of  mv 

cousm  Sydney's.      I  remember  long  ago,"    runs  on    the  bnV  ^ 

.Tv  '?  ''''^'  '''''°  '^^''■^  ^«  devoted  to  one  another 

that  when  monsieur  went  out  a  hunting  early  in  the  morn    fr 
-nackune  ell  mto  a  swoon,  and  stayed  in  a  sUon-from       S 

.  ^  Her  listener  joins  in  her  satirical  laugh,  but  there  is  no  satire 

"  Mr    Nolan  is  a  fortunate  man,"  he  savs  a  certiln  ^-.rr..., 
ness  underlying  his  laugh.     <'  It  is  only  the  second  uL  I  have 
seen  this  lady,  but  it  is  the  sort  of  face  one  does  no    see  ofl'tn 
nor  easily  forgot,  once  seen. "  ^"' 

is  f  Jather"di!i^'  iK^r  eyebrows  sceptically,  and  turns  away.   He 
s  a  rather  distinguished  personage  this,  who  holds  a  nl^re  of 

a""i.ft""  "^m'""''  ^''^^'^"^  '^^'-^  p!^ol^Nwlo"rake 
a  stir  in  the  world,  are  sadly  lacking  in  tact  too      Think      lie 

nioamng  alo.Kl  over  anothei  woma^,  to  the  l"dy  vt ^  "Z 
Sig  11^0,:^,;"'^",;;;^^'  -'  ">-■  "«X  ...a,  order  the"  colS 

Al.».  \  a,Kicrdo„ck,  acco,„,,a„ied  of  couk-  b^  M,    Vander. 


w  t 


402         "IT  /S   GOOD  TO  BE  LOYAL  AND    TRUE:* 

donck,  takes  the  steamer  at  noon  and  starts  on  her  bridal  tour 
to  Kiuope.     Where  can  slie  not,  in  these  first  demented  days 
drajf  her  old  niinionaire  ?  ' 

For  !\Irs.  Nolan,  she  goes  back  to  her  lonely  life.  An  inexpres- 
sibly lonely  hie  ;  days  that  are  one  long  heart-aclie,  and  "  tears 
o'  nights  nistead  of  slumber."     All  the  first  passion  of  anguish 
and  dcspaw-  iuis  passed,  and  a  hopeless  night  of  sorrow  seems 
closing  in.      Jn  her  iieart  there  is  no  anger  against  him,  no  touch 
ot  l)]ame  ;  it  is  simply  that  a  gulf  has   opened  between  them 
which  must  forever  hold  them  ajjart.     If  his  sin  had  been  the 
same,  and  the  victim  any  other  among  all  the  men   of  earth   it 
would  not  have  parted  them  for  a  moment.     She  would  have 
grieved,  and  pilied,  and  prayed,  and  loved   him  with  a  deeper 
tenderness.      If  the  sin  itself  had  been  any  other— ay,  any— 
•siie  could  have  forgiven  almost  without  an  et^brt,  though  the  sin 
itselt  broke  her  heart,      l.et  his  guilt   have  been  what  it  mi<rht 
she  would  have  clung  to  him   through  reproach  and  disgrace  • 
though  all  the  world  stood  up  and  reviled  him,  she  would  havt' 
stood  proudly  by  his  side,  more  happy  to  share  shame  with  him 
than  glory  with  another.     But  this  was  diiierent.     Jt  was   her 
•brother'    he    had     killed,    her   father   whose     death    he  had 
hastened  ;  to  that  dead  father  she  stood  |jledged  to  see  justice 
done  tor  the  deed.     It  seemed  to  her  that  that  father  must  rise 
up  and  denounce  her,  if  she  took  him  back.     And  his  crime  had 
been  terrible  ;   a  crime  not  to  go  uni)unished  either  by  heaven 
or  earth.     "  Whoso   sheddeth  man's  blood,  by  man   shall  his 
blood  be  shed ;   for  in  (Jod's  image  made  He  man." 

'I'he  sentence  stood  clear.     Murder  had  not  been  intended 
but  murder  had  been  committed,  and  the  innocent  must  suffer 
with  the  guilty.     Could   she  ever  bear  to  be  caressed  by  the 
hand  that  had  Hung  liertie  Vaughan  to  his  death?     No— their 
sentence  was  spoken— held  asunder  their  lives  long.  ' 

Seven  weeks  had  elapsed  since  his  departure,  and  no  letters 
had  passed  between  them.  What  was  there  for  either  to  say  ? 
She  carried  the  solemn  fiirewell  letter  close  to  her  heart ;  she 
read  it  ag^iin  and  again,  with  eyes  blinded  in  tears ;  but  she 
never  answered.  He  wrote  to  hi«  mother,  and  those  brief 
notes  his  mother  brought  to  her  at  once.  The  wife  kept  them 
all,  as  we  keep  relics  of  the  dead.  Her  name  was  not  men- 
lipncd  m  them— he  was  only  urgent  for  news  of  them  all— all 
even  ihr  mo;:t  minute.  His  motl.er  and  sister  answered,  and 
complied  ;  Sydney  was  the  burden  of  their  repHes.  She  was 
well— tluit  is  to  say,  not  ailing— and  bore  up  better  tlian  they 


ND  true:* 


'*IT  IS   GOOD    TO  BE  LOYAL  AND  TRUE:^        403 

had  a^  first  expected.     But  tlie  mother's  heart  ached  as  she 
wrote  ;  and  th.  .n>age  of  her  son's  wife  arose  before  her  ,nl    1 
wasted    ..Hide. :s,  the  shado^v  of   her  A.rmer  self.       a'S 

on   the  face  for  all  svho  ran  to  read.     But   she  was  very  qt  iet. 
P  theticaly  quiet,  no  duty  was  undone,  no  daily  task  neglec  ed 
n  .  ,  r  ll        V'  ''.'^V'-'^  vvuh  Teddy,  and  was'^bountiful  to  th^ 
pco,  at  her  gates,  givuig  to  all  who  asked  with  both  hands   and 

ou^'rcSm"'  '""^^^'•^■^^'^  ^-  «^-  -ght,and  the  solitude  of  ha 
It  was  close  upon  Christmas.     The  days  were  short  cold  and 

presents,  and  prcpoundmg  unanswerable  conundrums  as  to 
what  that  mythical  saint,  Santa  Claus-no  myth,  b  a  jovial 
real  ty  to  Master  Ted-might  bring.  The  child  was  thi  one 
Mgh^spot  n.  Sydney's  life;  it  is  impassible  to  stagnate,  even  n 
he  profotmoest  grief,  with  a  jolly  romping,  shoutin<  no"sv 
bonncng  "hun.an  boy,"  as  Mr.'  Chadbam  hat  it!  in  fc 
house,  NdK,se  lusty  yells  ring  from  mansard  to  cellar. 

Mrs.  Nolan  was  very  busy;  there  was  no  end  of  surprises  to 
by  for  hun,  a  package  to  send  to  manuna  out  in  her  Chicu  o 
^Jkk,  ,  UKunu^a  .d.o  had  promised  to  come  and  spend  N.^v 

Lucys;    there    were    hosts    of  poor   people    to    sunnlv   with 

rh-;  V      '    .  '"^''^  ^  ^"-^   ^^  g°  to  Virginia,  to  one  whose 

Chnstmas  it  wrung  the  wife's  heart  to  thin\  ofUomethlur   o 
et  hnn  know  that,  although  separation  was  written  be  vten 
them,  love  would  last  the  same  to  the  end 

the  day  before  Christmas  eve  Mrs.   Nolan,  with  Teddv  as 

attendant  cavaher  drove  down  Broadway,  shopping.     Master 

icd.nck  Carew  dehghted  in  this  sort  of  d  ing     the^ho,)s  and 

the  peoi)le  were  never-ending  sources  of  jubilte      He  Zl  i   , t 

i:l  """^s:^  "T^^  ^'^.  ^'-^  --  ^^ '-::;  ^^  \^ 

hide   coacluuan   Ihompson,   m   toi)  boots  and  mh    hit  l.>nrl 

aITa„^Sl    ,  "^'f  'l"%A''"tie  Sydney  would  in  nowise 
•iMiw,  and  1  eddy  glued  Ins  dnniniit  ve  nose  to  ihc  L-hss  ivMI^ 

^11  one  ol  these  ocrnsiops  th-  nrri ,•-,  ■  =--.  -  i-      "•     - 

of  -1  iniiii.-.^..'        ^  1  1-  1'  '"-  ^^  '^•'■-  ''ftri^o--  ivasSianuing  m  iront 

It  an  hou.   m  the  place,  was  crossing  the  pavement  to  re- 
-He.,  when  one  of  two  gentlemen,  sauntering  up  ann-in  ari^ 


■!»r 


I    i 


i  i 

'i  } 

i\ 

6     .  ■ 

i; 


404        "/r  IS   GOOD   TO  BE  LOYAL  AND    TRUEr 

stopped  suddenly  with  a  look  of  startled  recognition.  Instantly 
an  eye-glass  went  up  to  two  handsome,  short-sighted  blue  eyes, 
in  a  long  surprised  stare. 

"  Home,  'Hiompson,"  said  the  lady's  clear  voice  ;  and  the 
carriage  flashed  past  on  the  instant. 

The  lady  had  not  seen  him,  and  the  hero  of  the  eye-glass  was 
left  blankly  staring. 

"  Well !  "  his  comi)anion  laughed,  "  this  is  something  new  for 
you,  isn't  it?  I  thought  you  belonged  to  the  ////  admlrari 
class,  my  dear  fellow,  and  did  not  lose  your  head  at  sight.  A' 
very  pretty  woman,  no  doubt,  but  a  tritle  too  pale  and  fragile 
for  my  English  taste.     Do  you  know  her?" 

"Do  1  know  her?"  repeats  the  knight  of  the  eye-glass 
blankly.  I1ien  a  sudden  inspiration  seems  to  seize  liim. 
"  Wait  liere  one  moment,  my  dear  Somerset,"  he  exclaims,  "  I 
must  go  into  the  shop  and  ask." 

»*  By  Jove  !  "  says  his  companion,  and  laughs  again  ;  "  this  is 
something  new." 

The  other  enters  the  great  millinery  emporium,  advances  to 
a  shop  girl — I  beg  her  pardon — sales-lady,  and  removes  his 
hat. 

"  Will  you  have  the  great  kindness,  madam,"  he  says,  with 
that  rising  inflection,  that  flattening  of  the  vowels,  that  instantly 
bespeaks  the  Englishman  to  American  ears,  "  to  tell  me  the 
name  of  the  lady  who  has  just  left — the  lady  in  black  and 
sealskins." 

The  sales-lady,  a  pretty,  piquant  girl,  as  most  New  York 
sales-ladies  are,  looks  at  him,  a  certain  mischievous  sparkle  in 
her  brigiit  black  eyes.  But  the  gentleman  is  perfectly  serious 
and  respectful.  He  is  a  slender  man  of  medium  height,  an 
unmistakably  military  air,  with  a  handsome,  light-complexioned 
fiice,  slightly  bronzed,  and  a  beautiful  blonde  beard  and  mus- 
tache of  most  silken  softness. 

"  That  lady  is  Mrs.  Nolan,  sir,"  responded  the  girl,  her 
sharp,  quick  accent  contrasting  with  his  slow,  gentle  manner  of 
speech.     "  Her  address  is  No.  126  West th  street." 

"Ah,  thank  you  very  much,"  says  the  gentleman,  replacing 
his  hat  with  a  slight  bow,  and  the  shar[)  young  Yankee  sales- 
kuly  sees  a  look  of  disappointment  pass  over  the  Englishman's 
face  as  he  leaves  the  store. 

His  friend  is  waiting,  and  resunies  his  arm,  and  their  wnlk. 

"Well,"  he  says,  "  1  hope  your  curiosity  has  been  gratified. 
Who  is  she  ?  " 


\ND  true:' 

:ognition.  Instantly 
oit-siglited  blue  eyes, 

:lear  voice  ;  and  the 

3  of  the  eye-glass  was 

is  something  new  for 

to  the   tiil  admirari 

iir  head  at  sight.     A' 

too  pale  and  fragile 
It 

ight  of  the  eye-glass 
leems  to  seize  him. 
set,"  he  exclaims,  "  I 

uighs  again  ;  "  this  is 

iporium,  advances  to 
ly,   and  removes    his 

adam,"  he  says,  with 
vowels,  that  instantly 
ears,  "  to  tell  me  the 
e  lady  in  black   and 

as  most  New  York 
ischievous  sparkle  in 
.n  is  perfectly  serious 
)f  medium  height,  an 
e,  light-complexioiied 
nde   beard  and  mus- 

ponded  the  girl,  her 
ow,  gentle  manner  of 

th  street," 

gentleman,  replacing 
young  Yankee  sales- 
)ver  the  Englishman's 

irm,  and  their  walk, 
ty  has  been  gratified. 


•* 


*'IT  IS   GOOD    TO  BE  LOYAL  AND   TRUE-       405 
"  She  is  Mrs.  Nolan  ;  but,  before  she  was  Mrs.  Nolan    1  am 

l.anion.'''^'  this  musingly,  more  to  himself  than  to  his  com- 
thi'nk  'r  will 'r.;T/ '^'''''"  ^  S"''  °"'  P^"^^^'^i"g  his  tablets.  "  I 
jn-  ^  If  you  will  excuse  me,  I  will  take  an  onuHbus  and  t^  my 

''Certainly,  my  dear  fellow,"  responds  his  friend    nolitelv 
but  w.  h  a  pu/.led  look  ;  and   the  owner  of  the  eye^  diss    ails 

bticct      Hehnds  the  number  and  rings   the  bell       Tim-shinv 
and  black,  an  eruption  of  buttons  all-over   his    d^le  1  rea  t   ^ 
bc.,mng  snuie  on   h.s   ebony  n^ce-adn^its  him,  and  t^S^hi^ 
^;       in   L   .         T^  i^i^Must  returned,  has  removed  her  bonne 
ami   jacket,   and   is  sitting,  tired  and   listless,  before    the  f  e 
She  takes  the  protiered  card,  with  a  half-weary,  half-in  pat  ent 
Mgh,  but   the  moment  she  looks  at  it  all  listI<Ssnes    vSS 
She   s.ts   upright   and   stares  at  it   as  blankly  as  half  ^        ,'; 

ofit^^rr^dis^eSr^i^dd^;:— ^^^^^ 

au..-eof  Teddy's  existence.     Rare  chaL  1^  Si  ;e^  1^  S 

I'cr.     No  doubt  he  is  in  search  of  his  wife   and  wh-if  i«  .    .  \l 

^  to  lump     Tel.  tlie  truth  she  cannot:\Sl  ^  uiim;^  /  l'^  ^ 

ot.     She    stands  pledged  to  Cyrilla  to  keep  the  secret  of     er 

d.ng-place  a  secret  from  all  ;  and  yet  if  C>illa's  lu  band  ha 

^iKun'::.:;^:^:;-;;;:^?^ 

Gcn'elman's  in  the  drawing  room,  missis,"  hints  black  Tim 
th.nking  his  mistress  has  studied  that  card  long  enough        ^     ' 
CannVI?irh/l^?'''1''''^'''  feeling,  and   goes  dmvn.     Mr. 

hiiiMustanti;:  ^'-^ "'  ^''  ^"°''"  '^°"'^  ^^■^'''  ^'-  --«"'--^ 


>  1. 

l\  .  ■ 

! 

i 

■' 
■ 

406        "/T-  IS   GOOD    TO  BE  LOYAL  AND    TRUE» 

"  I  have  not  been  mistaken,"  he  rejoins,  sniih'ng ;  "  \ 
thought  I  was  not,  although  your  new  name  pu/zled  nie'for  a 
moment.  That  you  are  nuirried  was  news  to  me ;  and,  hite  in 
the  day  althougli  it  may  be,  permit  me  to  offer  my  felicitations." 
_  She  bows,  and  the  faint  tliish  that  his  coming  has  broii'dit 
into  her  face  tades  into  sad  i)aleness.  " 

^  "  1  saw  you,  not  an  hour  ago,  on  Broadway,"  continues  IMr. 
Carew,  "and  took  the  Hberty  of  in(iuiring  your  address,  and  of 
followmg  you  at  once.  Need  I  say,  my  dear  Mrs.  Nolan,  that 
my  errand  to  New  York  is  to  find  my  wife  ?  " 

She  plays  nervously  with  her  watch-chain,  and  again  a  faint 
color  flickers  and  fades  in  her  face.  The  serious  blue  eyes  fixed 
ui  on  her  note  it. 

"  You  were  always  her  best  friend.  She  never  cared  to  make 
many  friends,  poor  Cyrilla  !  but  she  love-i  and  trusted  you.  Jf 
anyone  could  help  me  in  my  search,  I  knew  you  vere  that  one  ; 
and  1  am  sure,  if  you  have  the  power,  you  also  have  the  will."' 
But  Mrs.  Nolan,  looping  and  unlooping  that  slender  cable  of 
dull  gold,  does  not  reply. 

"  During  the  past  four  years,"  i)ursues  Mr.  Carew,  with  a 
grave  earnestness  of  manner  that  becomes  him,  "  1  have  been 
m   India.     I  do  not  deny  that  I  left  Canada  in  a  veiy  reckless 

and  desperate  frame  of  mind " 

A  faint  smile  llickers,  in  spite  of  herself,  over  Sydney's  lips 
at  the  thought  of  placid  Freddy  Carew,  "  reckless  and  desper-' 
ate." 

"  I  exchanged  and  went  to  India,"  goes  on  the  gentleman, 
who  does  not  notice  the  smile,  and  who  is  in  profound  earnest 
himself.  "  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  forget  iny  wife,  to  ban- 
ish her  from  my  heart,  to  see  her  no  more,  come  what  might. 
In  the  first  heat  of  anger  this  seemed  easy;  when  anger  coofed, 
and  1  found  myself  fairly  in  for  it,  I  discovered  that  forgetful- 
ness  was  impossible.  I  saw  my  folly,  my  wrong,  even,  when  it 
was  too  late,  in  deserting  her,  in  throwing  her  on  the  world,  a 
forsaken  wife,  and  I  would  have  given  worlds  to  undo  it.  lUit 
it  could  not  be  undone— all  I  could  do  1  did.  1  wrote  to  Mon- 
treal, and  found  out  she  had  been  disinherited  by  her  aunt,  had 
quitted  Canada,  had  been  sick  in  Uoston  hospital,  had  been  pro- 
vided with  funds  by  the  kindness  of  Mr.  McKeli)in,  and  had 
then  disappeared.  All  my  elforts  to  learn  further  have  been 
useless.  1  would  have  written  to  you,  but  your  address  1  did 
not  know.  I  will  not  try  to  tell  nou  what  I  have  suffererl  in 
those  years,  thinking  of  my  poor  girl,  deserted,  friendless,  alone. 


--J_jw= 


true:' 


s,     smiling; 


"I 

puzzled  me  for  a 
ine  ;  and,  late  in 
my  felicitations." 
ing  has   brought 

,"  continues  Mr. 
■  address,  and  of 
Mrs.  Nolan,  that 

md  again  a  faint 
IS  blue  eyes  fixed 

;r  cared  to  make 
trusted  you.     if 
I  vere  that  one  ; 
'  have  the  will," 
slender  cable  of 

.  Carevv,  with  a 
1,  "  I  have  been 
I  a  very  reckless 

er  Sydney's  lips, 
less  and  desper- 

1  tlie  gentleman, 
)rofonnd  earnest 
my  wife,  to  ban- 
jme  wiiat  might. 
Ml  anger  cooled, 
:d  that  forgetful- 
g,  even,  when  it 
on  the  world,  a 
:o  undo  it.  liut 
I  wrote  to  Mon- 
jy  her  aunt,  had 
.1,  had  been  pro- 
veli)in,  and  had 
rther  have  been 
ir  address  1  did 
have  suffered  in 
Vicnd'ess,  alone. 


"/r  IS  GOOD    TO  BE  LOYAL  AND    TRUE."        407 

It  half  maddened  me  at  times.  Then  a  sudden  change  in  mv 
fortunes  came.  My  uncle,  the  late  Lord  Denraith,  died,  and 
remembered  me  m  the  most  handsome  manner  i'l  his  will  f 
unmedialcly  sold  out,  returned  to  Kngland,  and  from  tlu'nre 
here.  I  only  landed  I  wo  days  ago,  and  it  seems  as  if  I'rovidcnco 
had  mterposed  m  my  behalf,  in  our  signal  rencontre  on  ]Jroad- 
way.  If  Cyrilla  would  go  to  any  one  in  her  loneliness,  it  would 
be  to  you.  'I'ell  me  where  to  find  her  ;  1  have  long  ago  forgiven 
all,  and  I  will  owe  you  a  debt  I  can  never  repay," 

What  shall  she  say  ?  His  earnestness,  his  loyalty,  his  un- 
changed  love,  have  touched  her  to  the  heart ;  she  can  gau-c  the 
measure  of  his  feelmg  and  his  longing  by  her  own.  VVilfit  in- 
deed be  a  breach  of  faith  if  she  tells  ?  Will  Cyrilla  be  angry  ? 
In  any  case  she  has  promised,  and  cannot  break  her  word  "she 
sits  silent,  distressed.  She  knows  he  can  read  in  her  face  her 
reluctance  to  speak,  and  a  great  and  sudden  fear  blanches  his 

"  You  do  not  answer,"  he  says,  "  You  look  troubled,  Mrs. 
Molan,  my  wife  is  not  dead  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no  !  "  she  cries  out.  "  Heaven  forbid  I  She 
IS  alive,  and  safe,  and  well " 

She  does  not  finish.  Fate  is  coming  to  the  front,  and  takin^ 
the  niatter  m  her  own  hands.  There  is  a  shout  outside,  the 
door  thes  open,  and  there  bounces  in  briskly  Master  Teddv  all 
azure  velvet,  white  ruffle,  and  gold  curls,  calling  as  he  comes  : 

"Auntie  Sydney  !  " 

Auntie  Sydney  sits  with  cl-sped  hands,  her  breath  taken  away 
by  this  dramatic  denouement.  Teddy  esi)ies  the  stranger,  comes 
to  a  stand-stiU,  and  surveys  him  with  two  dauntless  black  eyes. 

Mr.  Carew  smiles  in  a  friendly  way,  but  something  in  the  lus- 
trous black  eyes  seems  to  disconcert  him  too. 

"  Come  here,"  he  says,  and  extends  the  hand  of  accuiaint- 
anceshij). 

Teddy,  never  averse  to  adding  to  his  list  of  friends,  comes 
j)romptly,  and  permits  himself  to  be  lifted  upon  the  gentleman's 
knee.     Sydney  sits  motionless,  perfectly  pale. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  "  asks  Mr.  Carew,  the  i  -  -  -itablc  first 
(luestion  always,  to  a  child. 

'rhe  dark,  bright  eyes  look  up  at  him  with  an  answering  smile, 
and  the  prompt  response  comes, 

"Teddy  Carew  1" 


4o8 


A  NEW  YEAR  GIFT. 


J    I 


CHAPTER  XX. 


A     NEW     YEAR     GIFT. 


'  '1 

n 

'f^t  I 


r! 

ii 

(     ^ 

t 

jk^ 

O  need  of  one  word  further— no  need  of  more  than 
one  startled  glance  at  Mrs.  Nolan's  agitated  face. 
Frt'deric  Carew  comprehends  that  it  is  his  son  he  holds 
on  liisknee.  lie  grows  (juite  white  for  a  moment ;  then 
he  stoops  and  kisses  the  bright,  pietty  face.  It  is  a  moment  be- 
fore he  sjKjaks,  and  then  with  a  treniur  of  the  voice  that  Sydney 
detects.     Her  own  eyes  are  full  of  tears. 

"  How  old  are  you,  Teddy?"  he  asks. 

"  l-'ive  years,"  promptly  responds  Teddy  ?*' ain't  I,  Auntie 
Syd?" 

"  And  where  is  mamma  all  this  time  ?" 

"Oh!  mamma's  away — ever  so  for  away,"  replies  Tf.ddy, 
witli  a  vague  wave  of  his  arm  ;  "  out  there,  where  the  cars 
come  from.  Me  and  mannna  came  to  Ne\.  York  in  the  curs." 
Master  Carew's  jjowers  of  speech,  as  you  may  perceive,  have 
improved.  "  And  I  have  got  a  vvockin  hoss,  and  a  goat-carriage, 
and  a  gun  ;  and  Santa  Claus  is  going  to  bring  me  heaps  of  tilings 
on  Christmas  Kve — ain't  he.  Auntie  Sydney  ?  To-morrow's 
Christmas  Eve,"  runs  on  Teddy,  imparting  all  this  information 
without  once  drawing  his  breath,  "  and  I'segoin'  to  hang  u\)  my 
stockin'  and  Santa  Claus  will  come  down  thi;  chimbly  and  fill  it. 
Ain't  it  hunky  ?" 

"  Santa  Claus  has  brought  you  something  already,  Teddy, 
that  you  didn't  expect." 

''  What  ?  "  demands  Teddy,  opening  his  ebon  eyes. 

"  Your  father.  1  think  you  must  be  my  little  boy,  Teddv. 
Hasn't  niamma  told  you  you  had  a  pajia  somewhere?" 

*'  Yes,"  says  Teddy,  with  an  intelligent  nod  ;  "papa's  away 
in  England — ain't  it  England,  Auntie  Syd?  and  mamma  don't 
know  when  he's  comin'  back.  I  sa)',  '  Bless  pa[)a,  and  mannna 
and  Auntie  Sydney,  and  Uncle  Lewis,'  every  night,  don't  i, 
Auntie  Syd?  Is  you  my  papa  ?  "  asked  Ted,  calmly,  looking 
up  in  his  new  friend's  face. 

"  1  am  your  papa,  Teddy.  Won't  you  give  me  a  kiss  for  the 
news  ?  " 

Teddy  gives  the  kiss,  and    receives  the  information  without 


A  NEiy  YEAR  GIFT. 


A<  ) 


d  of  more  than 
s  agitated  face. 
liis  son  he  holds 
a  moment ;  then 
is  a  moment  be- 
)ice  that  Sydney 


ain't  I,  Auntie 


replies  T<  ddy, 
where  the  cars 
urk  in  the  curs." 
perceive,  have 
1  a  goat-carriage, 
L'  heaps  of  things 
'  To-morrow's 
this  information 
i'  to  hang  up  my 
limbly  and  fill  it. 

already,  Teddy, 

1  eyes. 

tie  boy,   Teddv- 
•here  ?  " 

;  "  papa's  away 
:1  mamma  don't 
L[)a,  and  mamma 
'  night,  don't  1, 
calmly,  looking 

ne  a  kiss  for  the 

rmation  without 


any  undue  excitement.  He  accepts  his  long-lost  parent  with 
coiiiptisure,  and  as  a  matter  of  course  ;  and  iiroceeds  to  inform 
him  that  Uncle  Lewis  has  gone  to  the  war,  and  how  grc.Uly 
that  untoward  event  has  put  him  (t!ie  informant)  out.  This, 
and  a^  great  deal  more  varied  and  miscellaneous  informa 
tion,  Fred  Carew,  junior,  jxjurs  into  the  listening  ear  of  I'Ved 
Carew,  senior,  until  Sydney  fmds  that  the  fust  shock,  half- 
painful,  half-pleased,  is  over,  and  that  there  is  nothing  for  it  but 
a  frank  confession  of  the  whole. 

"That  will  do,  Teddy,"  she  interposes.  "  Kiss  papa  airain 
and  run  away.  Auntie  Sydney  wants  to  talk  to  him,  and  \  is 
time  fur  Teddy's  supper." 

'J'he  last  clause  of  this  address  is  effective.  Teddy  is  a  frank 
gourmand— is  he  not  a  man-child  ?— any  one  might  win  his 
heart  tiu-ough  his  stomach.  He  slips  like  an  eel  off  papa's 
knee,  and  darts  away  in  search  of  the  conunis.-arial. 

Mr.  Carew  and  Mrs.  Nolan  are  left  alone,  the  lady  visii)ly 
embarrassed,  the  gentleman  with  a  smile  on  his  lips,  and  a  look 
in  his  eyes  tiiat  makes  Sydney's  whole  symijalhetic  heart  go 
out  to  him. 

"There  is  not  nnich  for  you  to  confess,"  he  says;  "  diat 
nuich  1  know  \ou  7aill  confess.  Need  1  tell  you  that  if  1  had 
kiiown  this,  nothing  would  have  held  me  away.  1  owe  you 
more  than  I  can  say ;  thanks  I  will  not  attempt.  My  wife 
has,  indeed,  fou-id  that  rare  treasure,  a  true  friend,  in  you." 

"Oh,  iuish!"  Sydney  exclaims;  "1  have  done  nothing— 
nothing.  The  favor  has  been  done  me  in  giving  me  Teddy 
Yes,  Mr.  Carew,  1  will  tell  you  what  I  may,  not  where  Cyrilla 
is  at  i)resent,  for  that  1  have  promised  not  to  tell,  but  every- 
thmg  else  as  she  has  told  it  to  me." 

Then  Sydney,  in  that  agitated  voice,  begins  and  relates  the 
episode  of  Cyrilla's  unexpected  coming  with  Teddy,  and  repeats 
the  «^nvu  Cyrilla  has  told.  Of  her  intense  longing  for  the  stage, 
and  of  her  concjuering  that  longing  because  he  iiad  once  said 
It  was  no  fitting  life  for  her,  or  rather,  that  she  was  not  fitted 
lor  the  life. 

"  1  will  not  betray  trust,"  she  says  ;  "you  shall  not  go  to  her, 
but  she  shall  come  to  you.  As  you  have  wailed  so  long,  Mr. 
Carew,  you  shall  wait  one  week' more.  Cyrilla  has  i)ro!nised 
to  come  and  spend  New  Year  with  me  and  s-.-e  T^^dCiv,  uhom 
she  has  not  seen  for  three  monlhs.  You  shall  wail,  Mr'.  Carew. 
Meantime,  I  shall  expect  you  to  ct.me  and  see  Teddy  very  con- 
stantly, and  if  by  chance  voic  should  happen  in  some  day  when 
i8 


f    ll   f  !f 


410 


A  NEW  YEAR   C/FT. 


salami  V  """'''  ''  ''"■''""''''>'  ^  '•'^^  "«t  ^"^  t°  bIan,c-you  under 

Sho  gives  hin,  her  hand,  wiih  a  rdlection  of  Sydney's  own 

.ri-ht   H.uicy  smile,  and   Vx.d   Carevv  lifts  that  little  hand,  and 

KlS-iCS  It. 

"I  cannot  thank  you,"  he  says,  his  low  voice  husky,  his 
Ii nnest,  bhie  eyes  dun  ;  "you  are,  indeed,  a  friend.  I  will  do 
whatever  you  say,  hut  u  will  l.e  the  longest  week  of  my  life  " 

.So   AFr.  Carew  dcinirts,  and  AFrs.   Nolan  goes  upstair.,  and 
sun.nses   Master  Ted  l.y  suddenly   catching'lmn  in  her"  rul 
and  kissmgand  crymg  over  him  ' 

too'/'-''  ■  '"^  '^''''''^"  '"^  '*'"'•''>''" "''"'  ''>'^' "  '^'"  ^  '^  '^'^•'^  y"". 

This  performance  on  the  part  of  Auntie   Syd  does    not  sur- 
Pise    I  eddy-uuleed  nothing  cvrr  does  surprise    that   youthful 
||h.Iosopherverygreatly-hutit  discon,poses   his  feelings  an 
<lau.pens^his  rultle,  an<l  he  cavalierly  cuts  it  short. 

"J  >sn  t  goni'  to  get  lost,"  says  'Te<],lv,  ..ying   A,mti<.   Syd, 
.    s     yars  wuh  extreme   disfwor ;   "  wlial's  you  cryin'  'bout 
fioai.      Cause  my  papa's  gone  ?" 

you,  Trdd''''^'^'  '""  ^''''''^""'''  ^'^'"'^^™''  y^"'- papa  will   lake 

."Will  he  takemeloUnrleT,ewis?"  demands  T<ddy,  l„i..i,f. 
ni.ng  u|>  -cause  I  want  ,0  go  to  lJnc:Ie  Lewis.  Au.uie  <^\, 
why  (Ion  t  Ifncle  Lewis  conic  hack  ?  " 

•/'  'f  ^^  ^l^'il>71"^'«!'on  on  the  child's  lips,  and  it  wrings  d,e 
^  V  .  .n  T  ^r  !^-  T  ^'"'''^'^  ^""  ^'■^""'  !— '^'  -"t^l^-  "f 
linched.  He  has  even  howled  at  times  over  his  proloni^ed  ah- 
sence,  and  ears  and  howlmg  are  weaknesses  sturdy  litHe  Ted 
as  a  rule,  d.sdams  Mr.  Caix- ■  accepts  Mrs.  Nohm's  invita 
on,  come>s  every  day,  andspe.  many  hours  with  her  and  his 
bo)        led  fraternizes  with  his  father  in  an  olf-haiul.   indi.nant 

to  cm.ulei,  his  presents  are  many  and  liaiaLome,  but  he  is  not 
to  be  compared  to  Uncle  Lewis.  T,  si.,  while  ,N[rs.  Nolan' 
needle  flies,  and  talk  to  her  of  the  (,!(!  d  us.  and  "  P.-iuly  "  and 
their  runaway  honeymoon,  their  brief  uiauied  life,  and  [iie  slill 
older  vagabond  days  ui  London,  when  [aek  llendriek's  din  .y 
.Klgmgs  were  bnghtened  and  glorilied  by  d.e  Min.hinv  pre.enCe 
of      Little  lieautv  liendnck."   is  tl).' d<''i'ie  cfK-     !,'.'■,,      . 

lntle.-lhat  hltle  to  make  excuses  for  Cyrilla,  not   ve^y  logiaJ 


I)lame — ^yoii  under 

)ii  of  Sydney's  own 
lat  little  hand,  and 

^    voice  husky,   his 
friend.     I   will  do 

eek  of  my  life." 
goes  upstair.-,,  and 

;  him  in  her  arms, 


A   XEW   YEA  A'   GIFT. 


411 


'  am  I  to  lose 


you, 


syd  does  not  sur- 
rise  that  yoiithfid 
i  his  feehngs  and 
hort. 

ying   Aimtie   Syd- 
you  cryin'  'bout 

)ur  papa  will  lake 

lids  Teddy.  l)ii;-iit. 
Vis.      Aunlic  S)(l, 

and  it   wrings  llie 
assion,  outside  of 
las  that  devotion 
u's  prolonged  ah- 
sturdy  little  'l\'d, 
^.  Nolan's  in\  it;i- 
s  witii  lu'raiiil  his 
f-hand,    indi-nant 
hi^,  Teddy  seems 
me,  hut  lie  is  not 
ile    Mrs.   Nolan's 
d  '•  lioauly,"  and 
life,   ami  liie  still 
Iciidiick's   dingy 
•  lii^^iiiny  piesence 
Fr.ueii<-  CJaiew's 
parted,   iie  says 
not   very  logical 


perhaps,  l)ut  wh.cli  do  Sydney  good  to  hear.  In  the  intervds 
for  he  cannot  always  sit  at  Mrs.  -lan's  side  an.!  talk  -  IKautv  '' 
he  goes  f<.rth  with  his    utie  son,  drives  him  through  the  park  a nd 

lie  cUy  streets,   and  becomes   a  fre<iuenter  of  "oy   sio,^.s  ,,u 
bakeries  to  the  nmst  alarn,ii,g  cxtc  nt  ;  and  Teddy  is  in  a  fair  ivay 
ofbeing  killed  by  kindness  and  confectionery  ^ 

A  new  >nterc.L  has  been  added  to  .Sydney's  Christmas,  for- 
tunaely  for  he.  self,  for  the  great  troubles  of  life  cmne  most 
keenly  home  to  ail  of  us  on  this  jovful  anniversary  of  "  l>eic.. 
on  earth  good-will  toward  men."  All  the  present^  are  bo.,.d,t 
two  packages  are  sent-one  to  Virginia,  witlmut  word  or  .Mes- 
sage, for  It  she  speaks  at  all  she  will  say  too  much— the  other  to 
Chicago,  with  a  cheerful  little  letter,  which  ends  thus  • 

"  1  send  you  a  little  Christmas  token  which  I  know  y(,u  uill 
value  for  ,ny  sake,  and  I  have  something  he.e  you  will  v  duo 
fa.  more,  for  a  New  Year  gift.  Do  not  fail  to  come,  let  .v.////,;. 
(lain  you.  i  ed  longs  to  see  mamma  "-this  last  a  pure  llctio.',, 
^)r  1  ed  has  expressed  no  desue  whatever  on  the  subject—"  a.u 
Sydney  longs  to  kiss  Cyrilla."  ^ 

This  was  ^••'igniatical  Mrs.  Carew  knit  her  handsome  black 
brows  over  Mrs.  Nolan's  Christmas  letter. 

"Something  you  will  value  far  more  for  a  New  Year  uifi  "—it 
was  not  Sydney's  way  to  allude  in  that  manner  to  her  own  tren- 
crous  gifts.      She  icas  genennis-the  little  packet  contained  a 

wi  I  ii,  t"i'-'  '' •  .  ^  ^"■^'''  I""'"''''  suspended,  set  with  rubies,  and 
VMtim  I  eds  picture,  and  a  curl  of  his  amber  hair.  Cyrilla 
kissed  the  fair  child's  f^ice,  and  the  black,  brilliant  eyes  grew 
soft^and  dewy.     "  Dear  little  Syd,"  she  said,  "  it  is  a  'heart  of 

Ilcr    in-esent   came    on  Christmas    Day.     The    school    hid 
broken  up  until  the  second  week  of  Janua'ry,  and  0.1   the    thiVd 

ticgan',  With  much  more  the  air  of  a  grand  dame  than  a  .,00^ 
governess,  took  the  train  for  New  York.  Cyrilla's  splendid  vi*- 
la  Uy  was  soinething  to  marvel  at  ;  her  health  was  perfect,  her 
i\c  yea.s  of  tiouble  and  toil  had  altered  her  character  but  not 
CM- beauty.  1  hat  had  but  grown  ripe  and  peifect ;  maturity 
had  but  a  charm  and  sweetness  of  Us  own.  ^riUa  Carew,  the 
uichu,  was  a  far  nobler  and  more  beautiful  wx)ma.i  than  Cyrilla 
Hendrick,  Miss  Dormer's  wnywnrd,  wilfid  heiie,,  and  nie.;.. 


She  tried  to  read  as  the  tram  llew  along,  but  in  vain. 


01  I,  u.ld  love  of  freedom  was  strong  still,  and  fo,'  a  week  she 
was  iree—free  to  see  her  boy,  to  be  witi)  Sydney,  and  talk  of 


41: 


I;! 


I       ; 


!l 


A  NEIV  YEAR  GIFT. 


e  ear  old  daj  s  forever  gone.  Where  was  he  this  Christmas  ? 
He  hc.ught,  Nvith  a  sharp  contraction  of  the  heart.  Did  he  Tver 
hmk  of  her  now?     Was  she  ren.en,]>ered  only  in  co  ^sh m 

t^\Srn /'■  """\'  "^"^,  ••^•-■'"^-•^'^1  at  all?  Slo  o 
Mai  I<,ed  Carew  was  slow  also  to  forgive,  and  hers  had  been 
;  n  offence  {<,ss'  men  would  have  found  easy  to  pardon  Oh  if 
the  past  could  but  come  over  again,  ancl^he^^^rfiee  once 
|.ore  to  choose  between  Miss  Dormer's  n.oney  and  fted  Ca  "l^s 

Men  looked  at  her  as  she  sat  there  quite  alone  her  book  Kin. 

unq^ened  m  her  lap,  her  dark,  brooding  ejes  Iked  on^  1  ? 
t  .ng,  wunry  landscape,  and  turned  an cr  looked  a<4„"  She 
a     the  sort  of  woman  men  always  look  at,  but  the  "coquetti  h 

spu  t  was  dead  withu.  her,  with  UKvny  other  ev.l  things  ^ 

iAurnZ^uf'"'''?'""''^^^^^  ^"'1^'^'  at  last,   the 

am    ushed  thunderously  mto  the  New  Yorkdei)ot.     There  on 

chtfe     ta  lon,  stood  Sydney.     Then  her  attendant  had  been  lie  - 
tie  \  aughan  ;  now  she  stood  alone. 
"  Darling  Cy  !" 

"  J  Jearest  Sydney!"     Kisses,  smiles,  ejaculations,  etc,  etc 

adn,"  tLr     '^^YouT  ^°'''^f'  Cynlla."'  Sydney  cHes  out  hi 
aunuation.        You  are  a  perfect  picture  of  health  and  hap  " 


11  ess. 


1)1- 


-amut's'   'j;;''^:"^'^  ^^^'i  ^"  health,"  Cyrilla  answers,  gravely; 
an(l)cs-in    a  way— I    am  hai)py,  too.     IJut  you   dear  child 
how  changed  J.,,  are  since  last  September."        ^      '  ' 

in  fiia^'aXwr'''  ^■^''^'"'^^  '^^''  """^^  '"'''  ^"^^sh  of  memory  is 

in."  at'' Iv.r'wiH?'!  has  joined   the  army?"  says  Cyrilla,  look- 
gat   hu  with   those  far-seeing,  thoughtful,  dark  eyes.      She 
niakes  a  motion  of  assent;  not  even  to  Cyrilla  can  \he  spelk 

"J  would  have  brought  Ted,"  she  observes,  as  theyflv  alon- 

hroughthe  twi  hght  streets, ''but-well,  the  fact  is,  the  Ittle    f- 

g  ate  was  so  taken  up  with  a  gentleman  friend  of  nn-ne,  who  has 

a  ely  won  his  hckle  affections,  that  he  declined  to  come.     Ah  ? 

Uliat  shall  1  do  when  you  take  him  away?" 

It  may  be  years  before  that  catastrophe  happens,"  says  Mrs 
Carew,  with  a  half  smile,  half  sigh.     '<]  seem  !o  be  ks  fl^  off  a 


h 


omc  as  cvei. 


They  reach  the  li 


ouse 


«}■ 


(II 


icy's  heart  is  biatiiig  fast  with 


he  this  Christmas  ? 
leart.  Did  lie  ever 
only  in  cold,  slow, 
iit  all  ?  Slow  to 
and  hers  had  hecii 
0  pardon.  Oh,  if 
le  were  free  once 
r  and  Fred  Carew's 

ne,  her  book  lying 
yes  fixed  on  the 
oked  again.  She 
x\t  the  coquettish 
I'il  things, 
nded  at  last,  the 
depot.  There  on 
her  in  the  Wych- 
ant  had  been  Eer- 


lations,  etc  ,  etc. 
Iney  cries  out  in 
lealth  and  happi- 

inswers,  gravely  ; 
t  you,  dear  child, 

lish  of  memory  is 

lys  Cyrilla,  look- 
lark  eyes.  She 
a  can  she  speak 

as  they  (ly  along 
:tis,  the  little  in- 
3f  mine,  who  has 
to  come.  Ah ! 
>as  been  to  me. 

|)ens,"  says  Mrs. 
I  be  as  far  oft"  a 

eating  fast  with 


A  NEW  YEAR   GIFT.  413 

".pcrZ,:;.    ^>'""^'  '^  "■'S'-"-'  ■""  -'"■>■     She  lead,  her  to  .„ 

"Kunma    bins   a  d T.^  ;  """'""' /""l"-^  ^'  l-'^s,  it  seems  to  his 
absorbed  ''''''   ^'^""^    '^""'    ^''«    ^^aster   Teddy 

It  secn)s  to  see  you  again  '  "  '^  '     ^  '^'''''"^''  ''"^"  S"°^ 

broiJ'Ss' imr'' nf  ''^'^^1^  '  'T'''^  "l^^^t  "'y  ^"-fi^nt  and 
mamma  ?  "  ^^"'  ^'""  ^'""^'^^'^^  '"''^  ^^">-^i"S  ^'^  your  pocket, 

car:!r''ryr^LiS'trs'"^   "    "^  ^^^^^^^    ^^    ^^^  -^'- 
«  ni,       ^^'M""  not  glad  to  see  mamma  at  all  ?  " 

and  a  1  d^'^nl;^-;^;'' .;^'^^^;-?'^""^^^'  ^" '^  ^-^-^  accents, 
_^vu  left  >ou.     My  darhng,  come  to  me  and  say  you  forgive 


as 
that 


xpiution 


liw 


414 


T^VO  lUNDS    UPON  THE   BREAST" 


J 


II 


CHAPTER   XXL 

TWO    HANDS    UPON    THK    lUiKAST    AND    I,AI!OR    P^ST." 


F^IS'''  '^  the  ll 


our  for  your  medicine,  dear  I.ucy ;  will  you 


Sydney  Nolan  slii)S  one  hand   genUy  untier  the  inva- 
id's  head,  and  with   the  other  holds  the  medicine-glass 
to   her  lins.     Lucy  drinks  it  with  the  gratehd  smile  that  has 
grown  habitual,  and  lies  wearily  back  aniong  her  pillows. 
"  What  hour  is  it  ?  "  she  asks. 
"  Nearly  six,  dear.      How  do  you  feel  ?  " 
"Oh,  so  free  from  pain,  so  peaceful,  so  content.     It  is  like 
Heaven.     Sydney,  has  Sister  Monica  come  ?  " 

"Sister  Afonica  is  down  stairs  with  your  mother  ;  she  will  be 
here  presently.     Is  there  anything  else  you  want,  Lucy  ?" 

"Nothing  else.  You  iiave  been  here  all  day,  Sydney? 
pear,  how  good  you  are,  how  patient,  how  unwearied  in  nurs- 
ing me.  All  these  weeks  you  have  hardly  left  my  bedside  to 
take  needful  rest." 

"  You  nuist  not  talk,  Lucy  ;  you  are  f^ir  too  weak.  /  good, 
/patient  !    _Oh,  you  ilon't  know  !  you  don't  know  !  " 

She  says  it  with  a  stifled  sob,  and  lays  her  face  against  the 
pdlow.  She  good,  whose  heart  is  one  wild,  rebellious,  cease- 
less longing  for  what  may  never  be.  She  patient,  whose  life  is 
one  long  cry  of  loss  antl  despair. 

"Oh,"  she  says,  in  that  stilled  voice,  "what  shall  I  do  when 
you  are  gone  ?  " 

"1  will  still  be  with  you,  my  sister,"  Lucy  Nolan's  faint  voice 
replies,  "  lovnig  you,  helping  you,  praying  for  you.  Sydnev,  I 
have  somethm;^^  to  say  to  you,  and  I  want  to  say  it  to-night.'  Is 
it  you  or  mother  who  is  to  watch  to  night  with  Sister  Monica?" 
"  It  IS  1.  Last  night  was  mother's  night,  you  know,  Lucy  ?" 
"  Yes,  I  know— [)oor  mother,"  sighs  Lucy.  "  1  am  a  dread- 
ful trouble  ;  1  always  have  been,  but  she  will  miss  me  when  I 
am  gone.  And  Lewis,  too.  Oh,"  she  cries  out,  and  a  spasu) 
crosses  her  white  face ;  "  if  1  could  only  see  Lewis  once  before 
J  die." 

S)dney  clenches  her  hands.     That  cry,  wrung  from  Lucy's 
Soul,  IS  but  the  echo  of  that  which  never  ceases  in  h 


But  it  is  not  to  bt 


sh 


er  own. 


e  goes  on,  the  old  patient  look  of 


at  sliall  I  do  when 


'«  TIVO  HANDS    UPON  THE  BREAST."  415 

perfect  resignation  returning.  "//,'  knows  best.  I  will  try 
and  sleep  now,  and  by-and  by,  when  I  am  stronger,  1  will  iilk 
to  you,  Sydney.  Dear  little  sister,  what  a  con\fort  you  have 
been  to  nie  from  the  hrst.     Kiss  nie,  i)lease." 

Something  besides  the  kiss  tails  on  her  face.  Sydney's  tears 
How  fast.  She  has  lost  Lewis,  lost  little  Teddy,  lost  Cyrilla 
and  now  Jaicy  is  ghdmg  out  on  that  dark  and  lonely  sea  that 
leads  to  the  Land  of  Life.  She  stills  her  heart-wrun-^  sobs  lest 
tiiey  may  disturb  her,  and  softly  Lucy  glides  away  into  painless. 
traiKjuil  sleep.  ' 

Lor  Lucy  Nolan,  whose  life  has  been  one  long  deatli,  is  dyin<^ 
at  last.  Nay,  death  is  ending,  life  is  dawning  ;  pain,  and  tear.^ 
and  bcHlily  torture  are  drawing  to  their  end.  She  lies  here  white 
and  still  dead,  you  might  almost  think  her,  but  for  the  faint 
breath  that  stirs  tlie  night-dress. 

The  windows  stand  \vide  and  the  June  sunset  slants  throu'di 
the  tiuck,  glossy  leaves  of  her  pet  ivy.  Over  the  other  tlie  cur- 
tains are  drawn,  but  J.ucy  likes  to  lie  and  watch  that  glorv  of 
niby  and  golden  light  in  the  western  sky.  The  voices  of  chil- 
dren at  play  arise  Horn  the  (piiet  street,  but  they  do  not  disturb 
liie  sleeper.  _  With  her  forehead  against  the  head  of  the  bed 
oyuney  sits  m  an  attitude  of  utter  dejection,  as  motionless  as 
t  le  slumberer  herself,  and  thinks  of  another  death- bed  by  which 
she  sat,  over  seven  years  ago. 

Many  months,  long,  dragging,  aimless  months,  have  passed 
since  that  evening  when  Cyrilla  Carew  took  her  New  Year  gift 
to  her  heart ;  a  winter,  a  spring,  a  summer,  an  autumn,  another 
winter  and  si)nng,  and  now  once  more  summer  is  here      It  has 
berii  a  time  full  of  changes,  but  it  has  brought  no  change  in 
Sydney  s  life.      Lred  Carevy  took  his  wife  and  son  home.     Lord 
nunraitli   //ad  remembered   him    handsomely— all     the    more 
liaiHJ.umcly,    perhaps,    that   he  had  married   Phillis    Dormer's 
niece,  and  so  m  i)art  atoned  for  his  father's  wrong.     There  was 
a  heavy-chimneyed  and  many-gabled  old  house    in  the  green 
li^ari  ot  Somersetshire,  with  five  hundred  a  year  in  the  three 
per  cents,  and  to  this  ancestral  homestead  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carew 
liad  gone. 

_  That  was  one  change.  The  second  great  event  was  the  end- 
ing oi  the  war,  many  months  after.  Captain  Nolan,  as  reck- 
lessly brave  as   that  oUier  Captain  Nolan  who  led  th 


d  patient  look  of 


t^iuugc  at  JJalakJava,  had  been  in 

but  death,  the  best  boon  life  held,  passed  him  by-L 

tven  wounded.     But  to  the  last  day  of  her  life  Sydney 


lore 
asse 


>ian  wno  led  tJie  great 

than  one  engagement; 

le  was  not 

will  re- 


■HkiiM 


i  pi    i 


I 


•m  '  tli 


t  i 


416 


'w/rj  i/AXDs  uro.Y  the  breast ^^ 


<^^ill  the  sensation  of  deaLhly  terror  uiih  which  she  used  to  take 
lii^  ihe  papers  after  some  b-'oody  batile.  and  uo  over    1  e    st  of 

waf there'  tTsav7  Th.r""^  /''^^•^^'^  '^f  "'^'^"  ^^-^--     ^hat 
was  ineie  to  say  ?     \\  hat  was  done  was  done— noihin-r  couhl 

undo  ,t      What  couid  Sydney  Nolan  have  to  say  to        hu,"      j 

who  had  directly  caused  the  death  of  15ertie  Va;^^  n     in  'i  ec   v 

No  tin      va  'to  h    '''''.T'T'^^^  "'"'^°"'^^  ^'"'y-^^'  '"^■paration^ 

Ih       ".  ^"^  ?"''  ""^'""-  ^"  ^^^'  ^^""^N  "  seemed  to  them 

both,  but  go  on  to  the  end  apart. 

"I  saw  her  shrink  from  nie  in  horror   once,"  Lewis  said  in 

1  saw  a  Jook  in  her  eyes  that  it  would  kill  me  to  see  a-xin 
Could  my  hand  ever  touch  hers  without  her  recalling  t^vt'e; 
>'-olher  s  blood  stamed  it  ?     No,  Lucy,  the  dead  canm     ari  e 

nj;";":;ee?^"" '"  '^ '  ^"^'^  '^^y'^-'  -y  -^  -;  r^ 

And  Sydney  knew  it,  and  made  no  effort  to  r>pan  the  rlnsm 
.u    how  empty,  how  hollow,  was  her   life  !     She  tried  to    rav 

d.e:-iTirth'  '^'^  ^T'  ^^  ""'r''  ^^  ''■^^'  busy^ml  tL'ft 

one.     In  this  she  could  not  fail  to  succeed  ;  the  i.oor  at  Jier 
gaes  arose  and  called  her  blessed;  into  the  homes 'of    1,^  sck 

nta  t   pe,.ve  never  came.     Always   that  waiting,  hun-rily  ex- 
pectant io„k,  ahvays  that  restless  craving  for  tfc  hetShid 
once  been  one  with  her  own.  ^^ 
Then  came  the  end  of  the  war 

too^Tm-u'b'  lin!  "^"^'•■.^^:^^«"^'  ^^t  is  reckless  and  selHsh, 
too,  t  ma>  be,  Ihng  conviction  and  atonement  to  the  winds? 
Uoidcl  impu  se  sway  h,s  heart  as  it  did  hers,  and  Le^^:is'."tu 
ohei?  Her  heart  beat  wUh  wild,  inconsistent  hope— if  he 
came  she  would  never  lot  him  go  !  Inconsistent  incked  bul 
hen  aie  women  consistent  ?  For  a  month  or  more,  a  fever 
of_fcar,  of  hope,  ot  restless  impatience  neld  her-then  a  llltler 

It  was  dated  San   Francisco,  and  was  calm,  almost   cold   it 
seemed  to  poor,  expectant  Sydney,  in  its  stead^,  imjassivel  ua 


"  ^'^^  ''^""^^   UPON  THE  BREAST:^  4  ,  7 

shaken  will.     Siirelv  slu^  In.i  k  , 

fro.,  heart,  fixed  i^  t  S  I  a^Von^haHT  M  '"^'"  ^'^^^^  ^^ 
^e  suayed  hither  and  thither  rhVror  '''"""''' ^'^'^■^ 
hstenn.g  to  unreasoninLMvis^Jnn  1  •  ,  '^^  '^^^^^''^  ^'^'^^'i, 
^vn,ng  ife  co.dd  neve  t;^^  for!  I'•''"^''  ^'^^'  connnitted  a 
in  passion  and  in,,.ul  e  JiTh  ^  tendv  '"  f'"'^^''  ^'"^  ^^""'^'  '■-■>" 
!■.  San  Francisco,'  he  s.^  foV^oocf  and';,,  ''^  ^^""'^^  ^ "'^ 
""I'^'iative  called  liini  ,Kick      VVl?nf  '  ""'''''''*  .wniething 

--^',.'lK.y  were  to  let  hhn  knov  "' M^s  nS"'"''  '^^  '"'"^''  - 
ctter  m  her  daughter  in-Iaw's  inml  u-..^  ^  '^"'  '''"'°''»  I'"^  ^'^'-^ 
left  the  room.  I^r  tl  reichv^^'  'V  ''v  ^  "^"""^^  ^"^^  '^^^'^tily 
couage,  then  one  evenn.g.  ^  ^t  a; 'th'^vVe'  "^^  ^"'"^  ^«  ^1- 
""easy,  slie  paid  them  a  visit  <?h  ^  ^^'l^ro^s^^^^  serious,y 
l>-sdf,  so  inle  aspi  tha  tin  cv'^  ,/"r  f  ^ '"«  in,  so  unlike 
"CN  er  ached  Jjefore  ^     ^  '  ^^'■'"■'  ^^'^'"'^^  ^O''  her  as  it  had 

and  hll^en;'r::l,t^  7'  ^^'  '''''''  ^^^^'^  ^"^  of  sight, 

ApJnir  Sg!;:;^  Sif  ^isir'  "^^ '-''  -^^  ^^^- 

last  in  mercy  was  here  ^'  "  '''"'  •^""^''  ^"^  tleath  at 

bu?];:;^!!;:fX^^;|;f  --t  pa,e,  fade,  grow  cysta,  gray, 
stir  or  so,H,d.     Pre  entW   hi  'h?T  ''  ,"'""^'^^^'  ^-^^'^   ^''^''^u 
tl^ere  con.es   in  a  Sister  of  ChaH^         I""'  ^^^^'"^  ^^^^b',  and 
."-n.ette."     The  clu,    h  to  wS]  1"     ^f  '"""■>^- ^.'^^'  ^^''•'^^ 
'"^^"nifort  for  lier  ,xassinj^  ch    ,r .     '  ^  .'■'°''^^'' '"^"''^''>' 'i^'^ 

<lai.ghtcrs  daily,  to  v4tc?nd  real    :,r'       ''■"'  "^ '^^''"  ^'^'^^^^^l 
Sydney  lifts  hi  face,  such  an  K.'  ^';'/''''^  '"  '^'^  sick-room. 

-:i  ^-ics.a  t;dnt  gr;:;mg  vti:^^:!::  "^  ^'^^  ^^'-^ '-'' 

--^^^^^^^^^^^  ^^e  stoops  and 

i  asy— free  from  i)ain-sleeping  like  a  child  " 


4.8  urivo  //.lA^ns  UPON  the  breast:^ 

^vhicll  has  passed  from  her  foiever        ^  ^'  '"'"""  '^^'^"^'' 

"Dear  Sister  Monica,"  slie  says,  "  how  happv  you  are       It 

Sister  Monica  laughs. 

"I  ain    afraid,    niy   dear,    when  you    present    yourself  i.  o 

"coniinr  U^;"'^^^:  ''^^%^^''  theU./is'^rlLSv: 

"No  need  to  look  so  startled    mv  rhilrl  -To. 
scold  ;  neither  do  I  know  w  at  your  t  o  bie  i.       "^    ^"'"^  •? 

"\vrd"u-S'"r"V\""  ^'"':  V'""  •'  "'  '^^'  I^«-  Sydney. 

you  cannot  forgive.     Is  not  tlwl  il  ?»  '^  ^  "™ 

l.ca;"'fi;S,-.'I'''    '"'""  '"""■'"•     '   "»-   fo'-given  frou,   „,y 

...,ct,,c,..     Thic  can  bc^.lo  fo,-^.,'..-, "L  [[L?^^.^.™  ""'"''   ^= 
hcl,,]':' *',,■;:'  "'""■"""''•  '■""'  '  — '  '^-U  )«"."  i»  Sydney's 

.;.;f  yo,,,  selves  as.,,H,er'No;hi,;':l,'',:;^";,:^tJS^^^^ 

nr.^:tlr;;;ec[t,trto't\,'^:rj  ^S..t;f-  *7 "-'  - 

give  yonr  l.usband's  wrong,  i    ivro^""  ^    '^,"if„:"l'»  '"  ^7" 
I-  ^a  once      We  all  luvve  a  cross  to  bear!' a  gSjeai  ?o"for 


BR  HAST." 

"peace  wh.ch  the 
nee  more  against  the 
r   tlut  serene  peace, 

ha|)py  you  are.  U 
niiot  we  be  all  nuns, 
f  this  most  wretched 


•esent  yourself  as  a 
t/i(U  is  your  motive 
'cares  of  this  most 
.1 ;  nor  do  we  put  on 
habits.  Our  good 
he  cloister  as  in  the 
ikes,  as  well  ay  the 
V  what  your  si)ecial 
:an  guess,  and  what 


I  am  not  going  to 
L'  is,  as  1  have  said, 
and  your  husband  ; 

s  poor  Sydney. 
)  know — it  is  some- 
m-aking  your  heart, 
against  you  which 

forgiven  from   niy 

',  "  that  cannot  be. 

ive  you  would   be 

that." 

1  }Ou,"  is  Sydney's 

,  it  is  for  better  for 
ned  you,  and  you 
that  right.  When 
the  duty  that  lies 
IS  a  wife  is  to  for- 
done, and  go  to 
great  deal  to  for- 


"TWO  HANDS    UPON  THE  BREAST-  4,9 

^^J^l;^'''  '''-'  '''  ^"'-  ^«>-"  -  ^  -^>  as  a  wi^ 
"Oh!"  Sydney  passionately  cries  o?if    «  if  i   .^„i     .1        , 

"I  have  known  your    husl)and,"  says  Sister    Monin       *' T 
of  fixed  pnnciples   "^nd  steadfast  will.      ■         ^''  a.>"""g '"'in 


i   cannot  bel 


"  Oh,  no,  no  !  "  Sydney  cries  again,  Heaven   forbid  1     U  h^ 
lK.^.I„ne  wrong.  I,.  „.  ,,„,„  *',,,•,„,,  ,„,  'j™':;;  •„,/f,,';^ 

Sydney  looks  up  with  a  faint  crv  •  hut  in  fi-, .     •  .    . 

"  S'?„!"  t!  '.":'L""r'--,  -"^  -«•  ki.^-  the  n„„'"i;:i^,;,.'  '• 

"  Oh  !  pray   that   I  may 
s  Sister    Monica;  "dear   child,   are  you 

howt^id^it'Ts 'if  "'"^'1'  I'ucy  answers,  with  a  smile,  "  thinkin. 
each      q  ■^''"   *°  anticipate  the  sermon  I  meant  to 

byclney  kncds  by  the  be,]side  and  buri«  l.er  face. 

<l"ly,a„dhe  think  it" Vis  dnyoSf^^^^^^^^^  '1'%"""""-'  '"' 
»te  will,  hi,n  all  will  be  -veil.  U  se en,s  ^tS'see  .i;:^';^;!;"'' 
of  tune  more  clearly  by  the  li.rhf  -^  -       ■  ,   ,   ,     ""'°'^ 

hhe  sttll  kneels,  wtl,  clasped  hands,  parted,  breathless  lips, 


1  ray  for   me,  sister,"  she   says 
know  tile  truth." 

"].ucy!"    exclaim 
awake  ?  " 


f-'O 


"  '^^^^  "'^^l^S   UPON  TIIF.   liA'liASr." 


M  I' 


It  ii 


I-':"  him  I  se„<l  l,i,„  ,ny  d'-,,!",     '  '    ""^  'rJ'  »  <l)'"g  wish 

ncy,  yoi,  pr„,„i,o  ihi"  A'  "'^' "'""  ^  '"•■'  ''^■'-  ''&"'■'■     Syd- 

"I  promise." 

at  an  c'd.''    '"'    ''''  '''''  -'■^'>'  -"'J-g.     .  My  last  trouble  i^ 

1-^    steals    in%r;  ke  one  /.;:nLT"^'%""'soes;  Mrs.  No- 
N.ne,  ten,  eleven,  strike  f"on     1  e.?.    '1  V"^'  ^'^''''  '^'^^^^^S- 
f^ctly  .luiet.     I.  ai'nt  and  fa   off  c'.?'.!'''^-'  /  ''^'-^  '''''''  ^'  P^'^- 
Vork,  the  "car  rattling  JStLsom.  "'f  i-'  T'-^^"^  ^'^  ^^"^^ 
of  many  wheels.      Sister  \Ion  c^    1     ^'  T""':':     '^'^  ^^'i""!  -oil 
t-ching,  fo!<ls   her  hands    n^.e^  I  '     "^'^  '  '"'^S,  hot  dav's 
head  against  the  side  c.f  hTch^W    ^T?  ^""'•■^^"'^^»y'  l'\vs  h'er 
watches,  her  eyes  never  le^vin        '    v    '      "T     '^'^'^  ""y^^^'^y 
-em  on  the  placid  f.ce  of'l "ot  e    sieen"'    Tl  '"^  ^  "  "^^ 
-'   IS  close  upon  twelve-Lt.cv  Nohn\   m       n  '''"'  ^'"  ^'^^  "'^^-^^ 
part  u,  a  radiant  snnle,  they     urn   for  ?  '^  "'  ^V  "1'^''^'  l^--'"  I'PS 
then  close,  and  in  this  world  on  n"         "''^""'^  "P°"  %^'"4 
of  that  most  solcnn.  ho^  wlS  'T'""-  •  ^^''^'^  'h^'  -^'nknfg 

the  stainless  soul  has  gone  ^'  '^^"  '"^ht  and  the  day! 


iiii 


UK  HAST." 
)'^^-^'i  lips,  (|)at  is  new 


DOLLY. 


4»l 


i  nearer  to  my  flither's 


'!ig  face.     She  turns 


CHAPTER    ^XU, 

DOLLY. 

l7i,        """ty,  yellow  air,  sits  tliroiicd  like  a  ii  i,.,.n 

«...,„.. ,    wiiir^i'iif '  iv[r'i  ^  ''"""••'''■  i'-->i'i« ' »  : 
;;.!r,'i;isi::!r*;;i^:;;rt'';rT^'>r^-'^^i-^'^ 

a  .nan  fro  Ml  e"^';,/^;^"!'^^^^       ^^--'  ^^^  inevitable  hnes  ; 
fulness  looks  out    ^  ^ ''^'°'"  "^^'^  l^'""'^""^!  ^l^o^'ght^ 

■"ore  than  it    akes      It     nsrefin 'T'  'f'^''"  ■'^^'^^'•'^  ^^"  ^'^  ^^^■"-^'^ 

ne;f  i'ii;[;;:So!r  hi:s;:;.^r  ^"  ^'■'^'-  ---^  ^  ^'-- 

iclle  dreams  or  \Sn  ^^^^l  '"'V''^''  '^  "^^'^  ^-,e  for 
is  the  hour  sn-rlt    f^^^  '  ''"^"'     between   the  liirjus  " 

'■lay  are  a  an  em    amrth '""^'  '''^'"  '^''  '^^^"^  ^^^'^^^  '^^'-''-  ^^  the 

and   removed   n-om     he     M        T  ''^'i'^  '"'  """'^^^  '^'  ^^  '-^'"'-d 
lanips  hlink    hrZh    he  ve  (         ?'   '''"  •"''>'•      '^'"^'  ^   ^""■-■''^ 


DOLL  Y. 


43a 

]>oun  at  the  corner  some   Italian  harpers,  a  httle  brown  boy 


It.,   ami   fire  files  flash  ni   myriads  over    tlie  grass-plots, 
the  corner  some   Italian  harpers,  a  httle  ' 
and  a  gul,  arc  playmg  and  singing  the  Marseillaise 


"Ye  sons  of  France,  awake  to  glory!  " 

Across  the  way,  a  girl   in  a  white  dress  is  sitting  in  the  hot 
darkness  at  a  jmgly  piano,  and  she  is  also  singing  : 

•"Mi^l  pleasures  an,f  palaces  tliouirl,  we  may  roam, 
he  It  ever  so  liuinl.le,  there's  n..  place  like  h„me. 
A  charm  from  the  sky  seems  to  liallow  us  tiiere." 

It  all  blends  harmoniously  together  with  the  dull  roar  of  the 
distant  city  heart  for  an  accon.paniment,  and  soothes  hin>  as  1  e 

Us  alloy  of  sweetness  and  rest.      It  is  a  tender,  little  voice   and 
s.ngs  the  c  ear  old  words  with  feeling.     She  has  long  1  X' ha 
too,  and    blue    eyes-he    has    seen    her    tnany  evc^nn^^     S 
weanly  here,  and   ,t  gives   hint   a  sort  of  co.ntort  to  u^i  c h      ? 
lyi.t  ghttenng  on  those  (air  tresses,  so  like  a  coil  of  pale  gold 
he  wears  over  his  heart.  '         *=>       ' 

'I'lK^  harpists  move  away  ;   the  girl  closes  the  piano,  lights  her 
;\'-  1  :  •■^"<1  *  '-^iws  the  cunan..      I  lis  hour  of  i.lleness  lias^-ncled 
iH--  uses,  pms  on  Ins  coat  and  hat,  locks  his  door,  an<l  saunters 
s low  y  auay  toward  Ins  hotel  and  his  supper.      The  strJe      u" 
jncd.are  bnlhant  with  light  and  color,  ^tnin.ation  anlhi^l^ 
^tlu   IV'-   'ii'h'".''^  '""","  ^'"^'^'''  'f^'^^^'^'"  -i"^"-"  -''^^-'^  other 
liseoK   hue.      Jt  IS  a  panorama  he  is  well  used  to,  but  one  that 
never  loses  Us  interest  for  him,  a  stu^'.nt  of  his  kiiul 

All  at  once  the  steady   (low  of  th.s   human    tide  is  broken- 
t  u'le  is  a  sudden  rush   and  commotion,  and  uproar,  and  from  a' 
do/en  hcwise  voices  thore  arises  the  crv  • 
"Kire  !"  -^  ■ 

At  all  limes,  by  night  or  by  day,  it  is  a  thrilling  word.      Peo- 
.Ic  turn  anc    rtish  pell  niell  in  the  wake  of  the  tire  engines   ami 
he  fo  lows  the  crowd.      The  lire  is  some  half  dozen   bloct^  o 
ami  the  sultry  air  .s  stilling  with  black  rolling  smoke.     Tht-re  is 

.sticei,  ih.it  halt  smother  the  eager  crowd.     Now  and   then   an 

onmge  tongue  of  dame    like  a  fiery   serpent-head,  LsforS^ 

icio  the  blackened  bricks,  and  disappears,      it  is  ;    ku-e    sl.ell 

like  house,  ami  though  there  is  little  to  be  seen,  the  fir°e  has  a . 


POLL  Y. 


423 


^^■^X     V^^l\)  1       r  '"  l»^^^'<l"^K-l>ousc,  and  is  packed  with 

wmmm. 

for  il'av';;.'':;!;  v^  '"*'"^'"  '^  ""-■  '»---■  ™"-  -Q-ck, 

woman    for  1 1  u    .u-  •  '  ''  >"""^'  ^""'"'^"'  '^'^1  ^  l"---tty 

;  speaks  :  '  ""^  ''^"  '""""  ^^''^^  '•'^'«-"  ^^«^r.     One  of  tlieni 

I      "(ireat  Heaven  !  Dolly!" 

''Vol.  know  her,  strai)ger?''  half  a  dozen  voices  ask 


'"^  ",  l^-t  us  take  her  where  sh 


low  her.      For   Heaven's  sake. 


N 


i\o 


use,"    somebody  made   an 


e  ca  1  be  caretl  for  at  once  ' 


I 


svver;   "all   the   doct 


ors  in 


1 


I 


11 


IjgiUK 


424 


y^o/.A  r. 


th 


l>cj)o.sitiyc  yet."  "-     ^^'^ly^lic     Impossible  to 

"  'Slic  is  a  person  I  once  knew      Af-iu  i  1 

'-■'•  -si'le,  unci  three  weeks  ftfC  °  "■"^"  ^■'^"^"'"lioii  on 
'^"vcr,  an.l  she  lies,  u  .UWe  to  n'  ''  ''?'^'  "'^'^^  ■^"  ''^^"«^'r 
«t'll  wrested  ,V<.n,  t!^  g  '^  .  ITh^'n  "''^  "'^"^^^'>'  '"^ 
<^cncc  (auiy  sets  in,  tiielun  rs  ,,?  .^r^  ^'''''\  ^^^  ^^"vales- 
selt  Ml  a  dreary  way  I,v  w    H,  n"    m    .     ''^''^'  '''"'  ■''^^'  '^"'"•'^'-•s  her- 

^^v.dh.ws  with  gusto  fn.ity  ,  1  Iv  '  .  '  '!^''l'"'  "'"^'^•^'  ''^-^  «''-^ 
<-;'^S  and  peaciies,  and  ice^c  '  ,  ?n  l'  '^  ''""^^'"''^  ''^••-  ^'"'^k- 
''■■^"■■.^^  "po,i  her  that  thesx-  a  e  .V  '  ^'';'''-'^-  ,  ^'"^  ^"•^'^'"^^■'y  it 
f'^  fed  on.     Oranges,  peirsni"'?   ^'^"  ."l'^^-'"  Patients   are 

ch.ckens  and  the  wine  .'     v"  w   co    ;!;,'l   "  '^^^•^\^^—  ^'^  the 
co.ne  ot  tJ)e,nselves-soM,e  one  mn  l^^l  '"""'  '^'^■^'^^'^«  ''»'^'t 

-';-  one  ?  Sl,e  has  no  a  Men  t^s'nV'^''--  '''^  '^  ^''^^^ 
a  straw  whether  she  lives  or  dies  u',  ^'^^'^^'^^o  who  cares 
ami  expanse  ?  Hcv  n u n^  ,;;:  'l^^l  ^''^•"'  ^^-^"^f  ^-"  this  trouble 
"tiK-T  i.auent  in  the  ward  •  haV  le  .n'  I  '''"  '''  ^'''  "'^^"  ^^  any 
ll'-  ?  She  debates  tins  /uest ,  u  \  o  l^T'^  f  ""'"'^'^^  ^^''^'^  t-l^i> 
'1";  nurse,  a  lat  old  Kngli  huw  ,  an.  l"  ?'''  '"^'"  ^'^^'  ^^^^'s 
^,  ';-^ay,-    she    beginsf  "  who      it's^^  ""''  ^^^  explanation. 

No  c.,y  else  gets  ^a.Avin:  "^  i^^^^^'ll!  th,f  t^^  -^'^'"^^^ 

A  veiy  iHce  gent  h  ■man    ind<  ,',l  ^-     ^^^^"  ^^  '^  ?  " 

mirse;    '' a  friend^t'  v.atl        cam  .'"^V,^''- "'"'''   ''^"I^""^'^  "^« 
behaved  most 'andsouu-  abot  von     ^,'''^ ''^^  '^^'^^''  '-^"^^   ^^^^ 
--f '  -1-ts  the  nurse,  wn^'^n  ^     Jf^'^  '''''     '''''  '^^^ 
'I  blend  of  mm,.  1  » ,.    '       .'^-     . 


ays   the  patient,  bewildered 


>  opening 


icd  in  her  checks  when 


nou.  Y. 


425 


In 


wide  two  black  cv<>«!      «  \r  . 

^"■■-,  . '  >»c.  r,^,i;-J„s,  ^r,r,',-  >  '  "-«'•'  •■.  fn-on.I  i„  can. 

I  ifyou  was  l,H  ,nv„  .isto- ,  r tv',.       ^  ',  l™'"''"'  '  '"''■•  ''•■"•'1. 

aM,Is,m,e.     AboiutiK.  ton  rk.n'ri"'  ''''';'''"'•■ ''^'■l<  ^"'1 
s>vc.t  at  ti,„cs,   but  he  c-r  h   v  <  n  "il'""-'"';  s„al,:,s  most 

has  soon  tr,Mil,lc."  *  ''°  '°°''  ''I''-'  a  gc    leiiiaii  as 

>".;.«  la<.y.  «„  a  .sort"* J;'-;,,  'i;;-     A   ,...„,   ,,,.  ,,,=^, 

'\o,  Miy  dear :  no  ladv  1- ,  "^^-^csr 

fust  to  last."  -^        '  ^■^^''  come  with  hir 

»I'>--M«u  was  aslc-cp,  ami  s       '  t   ^.  ?"-'■?"''    '""■<   at    •„„ 
^ '«  » ould  no,  ,aix.  to  soL  I,  ,     f         ,''°'"'  '^  >'°"  "as  ■  wake 

he,  t-e.""  """•"    »"">■  "^•■'-■"-Vanstr:,;.  t;,;!-ra; 


KT    brows   knit,    her    h'ps 


426 


DOLLY. 


}■    \ 


an  the  ^^zi^^^^'r:::^^  --- '-  ^-  whe„ 

spe.uls  h,s  n,oi>ey  upon  hu  an  ]  dV  ^"^^^" '^''^•■^'^  ^r  her  and 
t'-aycd  hi.n  to  his  Jife.  Tint  !s  h  ;  ,  '°  ^''f^'^  ''^^^"'  «'^^^  ^^-^ 
«-''ns   he    hkes   a    noble     fvneSoIl'^r'V  ^'^■^^' '' 

''^■^Uhc.n  that  she  -s Jkis  nev^  read  or  h  ^/  I'^l'"  '^^'"■^''ted 
cT  hre  on  an  e.K.nv's  head  but  s'lu  f  1  1^1  '  "  ''""'"'^^^^  '''^^-^'^ 
flavvns  upon  her  unCincrlu    c       "''',f  ^'«  '^  '^'^'^'nly  „o^v.     'J'here 

and  in  the  restless  vnnl  of  bodH v  tn^         ™°[''  °^'-'''   ^^  ^11  day, 
'"  a '•-'^^•'^•tion.     Ne"tmo   W^^^^     ^"'^"'"^"^  ^'''-'"■g'^t,  and  come 
«Klc    Dolly  speaks  abn.,,;?;  !'"^'  "^'^■"  '^'^  ""'"^^  visits  her  bed- 

JA'hen  M.;s  Mr.  Nolan  here  last?" 
->-  ^i;:U     o!r^-e^^:;;^;;;>i;.:;:fO',  ^  He   don.   con.   so  often 
the  ihin.ys."  ^         ^  ""'"'>^'  ^'"t  he  never  forgets    to  send 

and  by  tears  well  up  it,  th/hll  h  i'  I  "'^  '""^^^  '^^^  '  f*""  '^7 
over  the  wasted  cheeks  To  ,c  ll  i  -T'  ^^"^^  '""  ^''^'ntly 
1!^^'"'  J><>lly  will  risefron,  tin    !  ^>; '^"^^'"^l^-s,  weakened  by 

•'^iK-  lay  down.  '  ^'^''^  ^^^^  ^  ^^^""er  httle  woman  tlian 

I-"'^  t  amLHar  nnh?(ft  '"^  ^'^^  -^^'  ^^""-lay,  brings 
delivered.  For  a  u  ofn  ^  hj^es;;;?'  '-^^l  ^'^"y's  UK.sagels 
«he  can  have  nothing  to  sav  hat  ^^  ii  '  "\"-'>"«"'"te  thought  : 
for  i-n  to  hear,  h:^  tj^Iu^^^  il"  Jnf  ^  '"^"^^^^'>'  I>-'^'1 
fo>-  the  part  of  informant  she  nlaved  ^  '  '^1  "'■■'^^'"  ^^""^^  ««- 
was  ,t  ,s  nn.ch  better  it  si  ul  be  l,.  ''^,  ''^"  ^''"^'^  ''^''  ^s  i 
recalls   n.emories  that  an       1  "'''  '   ''"^  ^'i^"  '"'i^^'H  of  her 

will  not  refuse.      S  If  s'crit  ie         "  '"''''''  ^^  '"^  ''■'"^'-      ^^^t  he 

goes  „>  her  bedside    ndS^,,^:;;:^.  T^    ^''   ^'''''^^''      He 
"  Vou  are  better    Do  Iv '-  h  ^'"'"^^  "J^''"  l'^''-- 

She  seizes  the  ^UK    h   'h.   ds'o!,t       1' '  f'  «'"^  ^'"  ^'^^^^•" 

t".e  of  in.pulse-and  cove      twhl  ~    '  ''"'  7''''  ^^'^'^  ^  ^'-^^a- 

to     die.        I      nn,    of    n-  •        V         ^ 'K-'  beSt   thiuLr   I    rnn 

-    W    Hu    use    11^    (  w.    i  1  .      '■        — " 


"o  use  in  tlie   world 


nobody 


do  is 
wants  ine ; 


DOLL  y. 


427 


v'ant  to  see  him -that 


J'raiicisco?"  "^  ^"^"  "'"  you  conic  to  San 

"Over  a  year  ago." 
;;  Y™._;vore  in  eh.  am,y  until  the  end  of  the  war  ?  ■■ 

■•'  l"<n."."°"  '''"'"'  ""'''''"  °"'  ''"^  ?" 
wi/ZlJf^'''  *^  -"y"  week  after  I  went  and  toM  ,our 

voiee\S;ps  t'Se'"ne.'  ^^^^^  "^^^  '-"  ^'  ^er  kind.,;  „is 

I'  }ya.s  that  the  cause  ?  » 
"  I'hat  was  the  cause  " 

J'  And  keeps  you  parted  still  ?  " 
^^  He  beds  his  head,  a  ,U,sh  of  intensest  pain  darkening  his 

Vo'.'.tX't.i^In'^ioJfpIr^-'^'-''  --e.,a„d  like  a  ,neea 

"  Witii  all  iny  heart." 

"  And  she  you  ?" 
^J^'   he  says.     ..Dolly,  yon  „,„,,  ,,,,,.     j  ^^„,^  ^^,^^ 

s..;'";;;'t\::t^n:^ruty;fs^ ';!•'■"■''■-'■'.>■■  "y<"- 

E;  -  ..''O''.  ^a.aki„«  yon,,  heii;^  Snsf  ;''n  ^^''f  j;:^;';.  ^1^ 

i;,a"«l  turn  for  ,ne,  and  H^,   .'oh,:?'',    °''''''  >•""  ''^>"--  ''""e 
Von  may  g„  back  to  vo nr  wM-'^^    "       *'"  •''  «"'"'  ""■"  f"  yuti. 

than  you  ar«."  '  "•'""-  '^"nshau  is  no  more  dead 


-1 


fT 


4-'8 


"//£  ivno  ENDUREii  conquers:' 


I    i 


l.l  ■■" 


1  ■■ 


ff 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

"he  who  endures  conquers." 

|1'2  stands  speechless,  looking  down  at  her,  every  trace 
of  color  slowly  leaving  his  fiice. 

Dolly  laughs  aloud  in  her  lriunii)h.  ' 

"  1  was  afraid  you  might  have  found  it  out,  but  I  see 
you  haven't.     I  am   glad   that  1   am  the  first  to  tell  you  !  it 
seerns  like   making  up  for  the  past  and  thanking  you   for  the 
present.     If  you  had  not  been  good  to  me  1  would  never  have 
told  you.     Nobody  ever   treated   me    well— that    was    how   1 
tliought— why  should   1  treat  anybody  well?     But   now   it  is 
ditierent.     I  did  you  harm,  all  the  harm  I  could ;  and  you  do 
me  good  when  your  turn  comes.     That  is  being  a  Christian  ; 
but  1  don't  thmk  there  are  many  out-and-out  Christians.     No  •' 
you  needn't  stand  and   look  at  me  as  white  as  a  sheet,  there's 
nothing  to  be  scared  about.     You  tliought   you    killed    Hcrtie 
Vaughan  when  you  threw   him   over  the  bank,  but  you  didn't. 
I  ve  often  wished  since  you  had  ;  but  people  that  are  born  to 
inake  other  people  miserable  don't  go   off  the  hooks  so  easy. 
I  hat's  what  I  sent  for  you  to  tell  you.     Now  sit  down  here  •  it 
ain't  a  long  story,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it."  ' 

She   points  to  a   chair  by  the  bedside,  still  holding  his  hand 
fast  m    hers,  and  with  her  round  black  eyes  sliinin-r  ui)on  him 
begins  in  a  rapid  voice  her  story.  ' 

"  You  remember  that  night  ?  Yes,  of  course  you  do  Well 
do  you  know  I  felt  sure  you  would  go  to  Wychcliffe,  and  1  didn't 
care,  because  I  meant  to  make  a  fuss  myself,  and  never  let  that 
wedding  come  off.  Oh  !  how  fond  1  was  of  him  i  He  was 
awhilly  good-looking,  you  know,  and  his  aristocratic  airs,  and  all 
liie  rest  ot  It,  lairly  turned  my  head.  Td  never  seen  anybody 
Ike  him,  and  never  have  since,  for  that  matter.  I  couldn't  have 
et  him  marry  Miss  Owenson,  no  1  couldn't.  1  wouM  rather 
have  killed  him  than  let  him.  So  1  watched  and  vaited,  and 
went  down  to  Wychcliffe  as  you  did,  the  night  before.  I  knew 
he  was  staying  at  the  hotel,  and  1  made  up  my  mind  to  see  him 
betore  he  slept,  and  make  him  hear  to  reason  ;  but  when  1  spied 
you  on  the  tram  I  changed  my  plans.  1  would  watch  you  in- 
s-teaj.     I  knew  what  a  horrid  temi)er  you  hod— beg  your  par- 


'^  >it  lier,  every  trace 


"HE   IViro  ENDURES  CONQUERS."  4,5 

don,  Lewis— and  how  jealous  you  were   in,!  T  KA.,n 

l-l.:nd  s„,ne  s,,r„ccs  a'iit.        ay  o^  and  co,  M  si"'"  ".''"'S 
.,;me  c,„„r„r.„3,e.     I  was  curio,,^  .o'lu,™- wha   y^,   w  ;  , d";-," 

yo„  .nr nelu,^"  1-  <f;  :^;;^  >'?;,'';■'<'  "'  «-'  "'o-nliglu  !    Then 
om  an,'      :,le  for  l"cd  .^'^f  ,1       ^T'^i)  '""  "'''  ^™'  '  "'■•"■'"I 

;™*..cJre''lH^?fTS-'^ 

]!cii?e  "li^lH'  "?  '  '''"  ?'^^-^'°^'^  Sood  to  his  own.     There  was 

"  W.^      I  ^'^  ^'-■"■'"■'  ''"^l  '^"^  ^l^'^'  to  say  a  word 

-«.!uU;:asfaT,i,?:i2;,r  '""'"""  "^-■'^-"'  --  '"^^-'f. 
"'J^c-rtic,'  I  said,  'don't  be  afraid.     It's  me    it's  DoIIu  n„,l 

^-•.  ^  y,  ^::ml°^^d'i'irnl"t  ^^  ^""^ '-'  ^^^'^^  -^' 

as  I  live.'  '  ^'  "*-'^^''  '^'^'^^'  y'^^'  ^^g^^i"  us  long 


well 


Yo 

■scared  to  death 


u_see  he  was  a  coward,  as  all  traitors  a 


Al 


\V'ait,'  1  said;  'let  me  think.     1 


1  my  wits  came  back  at 


re,  and  was  prettv 


once. 


you  can't  reacii  the  l)ott 


oni  without  kill 


in't  go  down  to  yon,  ami 


ng  yourself.     1  | 


lave  It. 


»ii 


r  ^ 


430 


"//£  ivjio  iiNi:uKEs  conquers:* 


»        i 

I 


m 


ti 


H 


f  I 


I'll  make  a  rope.     I'll  fasten  it  up  here  to  this  rock,  and  I'll 
throw  the  other  end  to  you.     Wait,  Bertie — wait.' 

"  '  Hurry,  then,'  he  says,  in  that  same  dreadful  voice,  'for  this 
bush  is  breaking,  and  won't  hold  my  weight  five  minutes  more. 
Dolly,  save  me,  and  I  swear  I'll  marry  you  before  morning.' 

"1  didn't  need  that  to  make  me  work,  but  I  worked^s  I 
never  did  before.  I  had  a  penknife  in  my  pocket,  and  a  broche 
shawl  around  me.  These  broche  things  are  strong,  you  know  ; 
no,  perhaps  you  don't,  but  they  are  ;  and  I  set  to  work  and  cut 
it  nito  seven  strips.  1  knotted  them  together,  and  stood  on 
every  knot,  and  jjulled  with  all  my  might.  I  threw  it  down  and 
it  was  just  long  enough.  Tlien  I  tvvisted  one  end  round  tlie 
rock,  and  braced  myself,  and  held  on  with  both  hands.  Jf  the 
knots  had  slipped.  Lord  a'  mercy  on  him— his  brains  would 
have  been  knocked  out — but  they  didn't.  He  caught  it,  and  it 
held,  and  when  he  got  to  the  top,  he  just  fell  down,  all  in 'a  heap, 
and,  if  you'll  believe  it,  fainted  away  like  a  frightened  girl. 

"Well,  I  didr.'t   nn'nd  that;  1   rubbed  him   with  snow,  and 
loosened  his  collar,  and  slapped  his  hands,  and  by  and-by  he 
came  to.     lUit  he  was  white  as  a  corpse,  and  so  weak  at  tlrst 
with  scare   he   could  hardly  stand.     He  just  let  ^me   do   as   I 
pleased  with  him  ;  he  had  no  more  jlluck  left  than  a  chicken. 
We  went  to  the  station,  but  the  train  was  gone,  and  you  with  it 
I  suppose,  in  a  fine  state,  thinking  you  had  killed  hiin.     I  can't 
say  I  was  angry  with  you,  for  \-ou  had  made  matters  smooth  and 
easy  for  me  ;  but  iSertie  was  furious.      His  face  and  hands  were 
all  scratched  and  bleeding,  and  after  awhile,  as  we  walked  alon;r, 
he  got  silent  and  sulky.     He  must  go  with  me,  he  knew  ;  but  you 
and  the  Owenson  family,  and  everybody  else,  must  believe  he 
was  killed ;  that  was  better  than  they  shouki   know  he  had  run 
away  witli  me— no,  tiiat  1  had  run  away  with  him.     AVe  could 
walk  to  the  next  station  and  take  a  later  train  there  for  New 
York.      He  would  ciiange  his  name,  and  he  would  have   the 
satisfaction  of  making  the  ruff -.n   who  threw  him  over,  think 
himself  a  murderer.      I  encouraged  him  in  all  this.     Well,  the 
end  of  it  is,  we  got  to  New  York  unnoticed  and  were  married 
the  very  next  day." 

Dolly  pauses.  Retrospective  memories  seem  for  a  moment 
too  many  for  her,  but  she  rallies  and  goes  on. 

"We  kept  (luiet  for  a  while.  He  called  himself  Hamilton, 
and  did  not  stay  wiUi  mother  and  me.  How  we  both  enjoyed 
it  when  the  detective  came  to  jjump  me  about  the  murder.  I'or 
my  part,  1  was  glad  you  were  out  of  the  way,  Lewis,  and  that 


to  this  rock,  and  I'll 
i — wait.' 

eadful  voice,  '  for  this 
;ht  five  minutes  more. 
Ill  before  morning.' 
<.,  but  1  worked  as  I 
'  pocket,  and  a  broche 
re  strong,  you  know  ; 
I  set  to  work  and  cut 
igether,  and   stood  on 

I  tiirew  it  down  and 
1  one  end  round  the 

both  hands.     Jf  the 
in— his   brains   would 

He  caught  it,  and  it 
;11  down,  all  in  aheap, 
L  frightened  girl, 
him  with  snow,  and 
Is,  and  by  and-by  he 
and  so  weak  at  first 
ust  let  "me  do  as  I 
k  left  than  a  ciiicken. 
;one,  and  you  with  it, 
:1  killed  him.  I  can't 
e  matters  smooth  and 
face  and  hands  were 
!,  as  we  walked  along, 
ne,  he  knew  ;  but  you 
Ise,  must  believe  he 
lid  know  he  had  run 
t'ith  him.  Wg  could 
train  there  for  New 

lie  would  have  the 
rew  him  over,  think 
1  all  this.  Well,  the 
;d  and  were  niarried 

seem  for  a  moment 

3n. 

i  himself  Hamilton, 

ow  u'c  liotlt  en'oved 

JUt  the  Muutler.     l''or 

tay,  Lewis,  and  tliat 


"//E    m/0  ENDURES  CONQUERS"  jjt 

lu  1  cxas,  and   bertie,  of  course    wenf  -jlnn.T       au  li    /   ^-      ^ 

and  the  following  su.nmer  we  s^  enHn  r  ^   .  \''^^  '^'''^''' 

tiirn,.rl  fr^  \-       A/    , '"""V  ^^^  i'|)cnt  m  (xalveston;  then  we  re- 
turned  to  New  York,  and  made  our  next  winter  trio  ta  Cul. 

':^:^!:i:t^i^:i:.!:i:  "r-  ^'^-  -^  '''••  •'■- 

f.,,M     .       '">-i'-iiLL — 1  was  as  fond  of  hmi  as  ever   whil,>  Iv  ,r,.f- 

f'n  m  minor  uarts nu' fh-iM-,,.  i, ,  i        -c      ^    ^  •"■'^•^^     ne  vvcnc 

SiK-  l.t  i,i,n  k  ,r  i t   o,    t  ,  •],       =""'  ;"■"■  ^^^.'--'il^-^  l'"li^""'- 
«c„,.t  „e.  ,o  p,.J^  j^  ^^  1:  IS'-  -  S;.  to     e.  „„.,,  , 

to 


"L^r'^''','^"'^  ''^"  ^^  ^"^^'    I^^ore  I  knew  it,   ! 

ave   him   the  money 


instituted  a  suit  tor  ilivorc 


and 


jv/t"  <r 


H^:-:s:::;^-:rEt^s;a^^:-^--- -^ 


i: 


432 


'*HE    IVirO  ENDURES  CONQUERS. 


lii 


1 


niiiHKi 

■rrr  ' 


!    fi 


'■■ 

1 

i 

1 1 

1 

1  I  M       J«  r 


t       . 


for  he  had  no  trouble  in  proving  tlie  sort  of  life  we  led.  I'.efore 
the  decree  was  granted  they  had  left  the  place  ;  and  two  weeks 
arter,  tiieir  nianiage  was  in  the  pai)er.s.  I  Fe  had  taken  hark  his 
own  name,  and  there  it  was  'Albert  Vanghan,  Esq.,  and  Caro- 
line, rehct  ol  the  late  Peter  Morgan  of  this  city  ' 

"  After  that,  I  don't  care  to  tell  or  think  how  I  felt  or  how  I 
went  on.     1  was  reckless  and  mad,  a.ul  didn't  care  for  an.v  thin- 
Lit    I  kept  decent  looks,  and  decent  clothes,  and  by  a  iluk  •  of 
fortune  got  an  engagen.ent  in  the  theatre  where  I  Ls  you  and 
your  wife.     It   was   only  temporarily    to  fill   tl^e  i)lace    of  an 
actress  who  had  suddenly  been  taken  ill.     I  think  the  devil  uot 
into  me  at  the  s.ght.     The  world  prospered  with  everybody  but 
UK      Bertie  Vaughan  was  rolling  in   riches-so   were   you      1 
had  made  up  my  mincl   to  shoot   him  if  1  ever  met  him,  and 
that  night      made  up  mind  to  ,\o you  all  the  mischief  I  cr,uld 
1  was  struck  of  a  heap    to  see    you  had  married    Miss  Sydney 
Owenson  of  all  women,  and  I  felt  sure  she  couldn't  know  what 
you  had  done  to  Jk-rtie.     I  had  found  out  that  he   was  in  Cali- 
tornia-I  wanted  money  to  come  after  and   hunt   him  down  • 
jr;//  would  give  me  that  money  to  keep  your  secret,  I  was  sure.' 
bo  1  went  to  your  house  to  see  you,  and  saw  her  instead.     You 
know  what  I  told  her-a  little  truth  and  a  little  lie.     ]5etween 
both  the  work  was  done,  and  you  and  she  parted.     I  heard  you 
went  to  the  war,  and  guessed  the   reason.     JUit   I  never   went 
Dack.      Ihere  Avas    something   in  your   wife's  look    that,    bad 

aU  alone       ''''  ^'"^  ''°''''"-     ^  '^''^"^  ^''^>''  ^^"'^  '^"^   ''^"^ 

''  All  this  time  I  had  kept  track  of  Bertie  Vaughan.     He  and 
he  Morgan  woman  went  to  Kurope  ;  tremendous  swells,  both  of 
hem  ;  and  he  was  pioudof  lier  mone,y,  if  he  was  ashamed  of 
ler.     Uhen  they  came  l.ack-and  with  a   French  nurse  and  a 
babj',  If  you  please  l-tlvy  went  olT  to  California  before  I  could 
set  eyes  on  them.      I         ad,  the  Morgan    woman  would   have 
been    ooking  out  for   ..amber  four    bv    this  time.      I  followed 
tiiem  here  as  soon  as  i  could,  and   I   was   only  here   two  days 
when  the  house  I  boarded  in  took  f.re,  and   I  jumped  from  the 
window   and  smashed  myself.     You've  been  good  to   me,   and 
1  ve  told  you  this  story  (,.  pay  you  back.     Bertie  Vaughan's  alive 
and  well,  and  in  this  city,  if  he  hasn't  left  it  since  I  came  here." 
.    bhe  stops,  >,till  clasping  closely  the  hand  that  has  grown  cold 
in  tiers.      He  has  not  si)oken  a  word  :   he  has   sat  and  listeni^l 
to  all,  his  face  rigid  with  surprise,  and  perfectlv  colorless 

V  ou  ain't  angry,  l.ewis  ?  "  sh.e  asks,  wistfully.      "  I  know  it 


Jl  1    i 


"HB  WHO  ENDURES  CONQUERS"  433 

a™;  Ir;:'.,! *af  ..""• ''"'  '■"■  "f"'  ^"y  "-■     I  ca„.e  sa, 

imirderer  n  intention  •  T  finrl  To         V         •    .     "'^^^'^  ^^'^^  a 

it  is  Sa,  ,f  "h  ■    '•■'^\"°">'-    ,"'■'"= ''°"'--  mischief  enough  ■ 

woman  were  stopping  a.  .^letfll^^l^HouS!.."'"  ""   '^"«^" 
is  n.yho.e,^repa°r^x:nr.h;';:^ ''"'"''•'" ''■--^-    "T'-' 

>vi;hj;eSote~^ 

until  late      1?.,.   t  !i    ii  '^  '^"^^  ""  "^^  return,  as  a  rule 

.    ce    no'e   Dollv  •  and  I?l  "''^"  ''^^  T""''     ^et  .ue  thank ^iu 

"•an  who  walks  in  a  dream  ..a  fi'  ■'  ^f '^"  ^'''^'^"'  ^^^e  a 
lifted  off  his  sioders  with  a  sou  1 11^'?  '^^  ^"'f  °^^  ^^''^^ 
-;!, great  joy,  walks  back  to  hl',;:;^el      "'  "'''"^  thanksgiving 

i^-^xceptnig  Sundays,  he  has  hardly  ever  been  in  \,  \  -  ,  • 
sojourn,  at  this  time  of  dav  Half  fhr-  c^^f "  '"  f '  "^"""S  '^^^ 
go,  and  he  be  none  the  v4er  J.  •  a^  ', '"'^'^^  come  and 
'^ext  door  neiH^bor  fo  al  t  kn^''''^Y.^''S^"  '"  ?f>t  be  his 
tlunk  Heaven'  for  tha  .  hS  fi  r^"-  A^'^^  •' ^^^"k  Heaven! 
agister.     Yes!  itTs  ttre.  ^'''  ^'' ''  '"  ^"^""'^^  ^'^  '^o^ei 

J; Albert  Vaughan,  Esquire,  lady,  nurse,  and  child  " 

M'-.  Vaughan,  sir  ?"    ^'"^^^"^^^^^^  '"  San  Francisco.     KnovJ 

yojmg  feilow  ?'^'''  """'  ^""-     ^  ^^'■^  ^^«"d-.  British  looking 

"  VVith  n.  draw!  '  inr!  in  ^^r^     »  i      - 

of  brain,"  "says  the '' nmt  clerk^T''  ""-^'^"u^  ^"'"^'"^  °^  ^"  ^'^^^ 
tude  and  mi.^ickingXVmt'hknr""^  '"""^'  ^^^^^  ^"  ^«^ 
19 


434 


'HE    WHO  ENDURES  CONQUERSy 


Aw,  I  say,  my  good  fellah,  just  mix  me  a  sherry  cobbler 
will  you— It's  so  blawsted  'ot  to  day  I '  Uncommon  fond  of 
crooking  his  elbow,  is  Mr.  Vaughan.  And  he  ain't  hen-pecked 
neither.     Oh,  no,  not  at  all." 

Mr.  Nolan  does  not  wait  for  the  conclusion  of  these  sarcastic 
remarks,  but  springs  with  elastic  lightness  up  the  stairs  to  his 
own  room  on  the  third  floor.  He  will  write  to  his  wife  and  tell 
Jier  all.  No,  he  will  send  her  a  telegram  ;  he  cannot  wait.  A 
telegram  just  to  apprise  her  that  Uertie  Vaughan  is  ahve,  and  a 
letter  afterward  to  explain  how  he  comes  to  know.  Notliine 
need  stand  between  them  now.  Such  a  rush  of  hope  aod  joy 
comes  oyer  him  as  he  realizes  it  that  he  can  do  nothing  butui:. 
the  pen  idle  in  his  hand,  in  a  happy  dream. 

He  begins  his  letter  at  last : 

,, , ,     ^         ,„       „  San  Francisco,  August  28th. 

"My  Dear  Wife." 

Again  he  pauses,  the  words  he  has  written  seem  to  hold  hi« 
hand  by  some  charmed  spell,  and  he  can  get  no  further.  "My 
dear  wife."  With  what  different  feelings  he  wrote  these  verv 
words  last,  sitting  m  his  motiicr's  cottage,  wiiile  the  dull  dawn 
broke,  beginning  that  letter  of  saddest  fiirewell.  He  has  never 
written  them  since,  never  sent  her  word,  or  note,  or  line  Jie- 
tween  them  stood  the  red  shadow  of  murder,  the  dead,  menacing 
face  of  J^ertie  Vaughan.  But  liertie  Vaughan  is  alive  and  welL 
and  beneath  this  v^ry  roof— how  strange,  how  strange— once 
more  the  svyeet  familiar  address,  so  long  unwritten,  looks  ui)  at 
him  from  the  paper.  He  could  see  her  as  she  received  this 
letter,  the  tears,  the  joy,  the  prayer  of  almost  speechless 
gratitude,  the  loving,  eager  reply. 

"  My  dear  wife  I  "—what  shall  he  say— how  begin  ?  He  is 
not  usually  at  a  loss  for  words,  either  in  writing  or  speaking : 
but  this  is  the  supreme  moment  of  a  life,  and  it  is  not  so  easy 
either  to  break  the  news  of  great  sorrow  or  joy.  He  sits  so 
absorbed  that  a  faint  tap  at  the  door  fails  to  reach  him.  He 
neither  hears  nor  knows,  when  the  handle  is  gently  turned  and 
some  one  comes  in. 

Five  minutes  previously,  there  had  been  an  arrival.  A  lady 
youthful  and  elegant,  though  slightly  travel-worn,  has  driven  up 
to  the  hotel  and  in(iuired  for  Mr.  Nolan.  Yes,  Mr.  Nolan  is 
mT'".?I.!("f,"^'-^"  Ills  room,  says  the  smart  clerk,  with  a  look  of 
nnng.e(.  surprise,  curiosity,  and  admiration.  In  liie  six  months 
of  his  stay,  Mr.  Nolan  has  had  no  ladies  to  ask  after  him  before. 


nie  a  sherry  col)bler 

Uncommon  fond  of 

d  he  ain't  hen-pecked 

lion  of  these  sarcastic 
;s  up  the  stairs  to  his 
te  to  his  wife  and  tell 
he  cannot  wait.  A 
uighan  is  alive,  aiid  a 
s-  to  know.  i\othing 
rush  of  hoi)e  and  io^ 
m  do  nothing  but  *u:, 


[SCO,  August  28th. 

en  seem  to  hold  h>« 
it  no  further.  *'  My 
he  wrote  these  very 
while  the  dull  dawn 
kvell.  He  has  never 
ir  note,  or  line.  J^e- 
,  the  dead,  menacing 
an  is  alive  and  well, 
how  strange — once 
written,  looks  up  at 
IS  she  received  this 
almost    speechless 

ho\y  begin  ?  He  is 
'riting  or  speaking ; 
md  it  is  not  so  easy 
or  joy.  He  sits  so 
to  reach  him.  He 
s  gently  turned  and 

m  arrival.  A  lady, 
vorn,  has  driven  up 
Yes,  Mr.  Nolan  is 
;rk,  with  a  look  of 
in  ilic  six  months 
ik  after  him  before. 


••//£•    m/0   ENDURES  CONQUERS."  435 

This  young  lady  despite  her  gray  veil,  the  clerk  can  sec,  is  ex- 
cci.t.oiuilly  handsome  and  -  high-toned."  "  The  sort  of  missis 
J  slimild  ike  to  swell  down  Montgomery  street  any  day  in  the 
week  with,  and  I  am't  easy  to  please  neither,  I  ain't,"  is  what 
the  clerk  says  afterward,  relating  the  occurrence 

"Shall  I  send  for  Mr.  Nolan,  uiadame  ?  "  in  his  most  suave 
manner,  says  the  smart  clerk. 

"  1  am  Mrs.  Nolan  "  the  young  lady  answers,  with  quiet  dig- 
nity and  a  v.y.a  blush.  "  If  you  will  show  me  to  his  room  I 
will  not  trouble  you." 

"  Vou  Pete,"  calls  the  clerk,  and  «'  You  Pete,"  a  colored  boy. 
bounces  forward.     "  Show  this  lady  to  seventy-three,  and  look 

'I'lie  lady  follows-  You  Pete,"  and  the  sprightly  clerk  blows 
after  her  an  enthusiastic  kiss.  '    «=     / 

"IJeauteous  creature!  'She's  all  my  fancy  painted  her, 
she  s  lovely,  she's  divine;  but  her  heart  it  is  another's,  and  i 
never  can  be  mine.'  Didn't  know  Nolan  had  a  wife.  Close 
mouthed  fellow,  Nolan.  Such  .-.  stunner,  too.  Just  from  the 
b  ates.  Steamer  m  an  hour  ago.  Wonder  if  he  expects  her  ? 
Never  went  to  the  pier.  But  then  she's  his  own  wife.  If  she 
was  any  other  fellow's " 

Pete  escorts  her  to  No.  73— points  it  out  with  a  grin,  ducks 
his  woolly  head,  and  disappears.  She  taps  lightly,  her  heart 
beating  so  fast  that  she  grows  faint.     There  is  no  response  • 

tu.  ?/""'  ""''i  P'^'  '"•  }^^  ''  ^^'^^''•^1'  his  back  to  her,  writing! 
She  throws  off  her  veil,  clasps  her  hands,  and  looks  at  him  for 
a  moment— the  husband  unseen  so  long.  Then  there  is  a  waft 
ot  perfume,  tile  flutter  of  a  woman's  dress,  and  she  is  kneeling 
belore  him,  her  face  bowed  on  his  knee 
"  Lewis  ! " 

He  starts  with  a  violent  recoil,  and  looks  at  her.  She  has 
been  so  vividly  before  him,  that  for  a  moment  he  thinks  it  is  a 
luilucination,  conjured  up  by  his  own  intense  longing.  But 
she  speaks  again  brokenly,  in  Sydney's  own  soft  voice  : 

1  e WIS— husband— 1  have  come  to  you  !  I  could  not  stav 
away  longer.  _^  Oh  !  Lewis,  say  you  are  glad  I  am  here." 

bydney !  he  says  in  a  dazed  voice,  and  sits  and  looks  at 
her,  almost  afraid  to  touch  this  kneeling  figure,  lest  it  should 
vanish,  "  ts  it  Sydney,  or  am  I  dreaming  ?  " 

She  litts  her  face,  all  pale  and  wet  with  passionate  tears,  and 
throws  her  arms  about  him.  ' 

"  Lewis  !  Lewis !  Lewis  1 " 


436 


''IXTO  MMiVF.U.OVS  UC/fT" 


"  It  is  real  thru  ;  it  is  Syclncy  ! " 

While  he  sat  licre  trying  to  get  boyoiul  the  words  that 
charmed  him,  she  was  on  her  way  to  him.  (^noe  more  ho 
looks  on  Sychiey's  fan-,  sweet  face;  once  more  Sydney's  tender 
arms  clasp  him.  ^ 

*'  My  wife  !  my  wife  !  " 

He  holds  her  for  a  little,  and  no  words  are  spoken.  She 
still  kneels,  and  he  makes  no  attempt  to  raise  her.  So  inti'iise 
is  (he  surprise  that  he  is  almost  stunned.  Then  a  sudden 
startling  thought  strikes  him— why  has  she  rume  !  Does  she 
know?  He  draws  back  and  looks  down  into  the  fare  that  is 
dearer  to  him  than  all  earth  besidc-that  he  has  seen  only  in 
dreams  for  two  long  years. 

"Sydney,"  he  asks,  "7£'//>'  have  you  come  ?  How  is  it  that 
what  parted  us  once  does  not  part  us  still  ?  " 

"JJecause  it  should  ncv  r  have  parted  us,"  she  says  with  a 
great  sob  ;  "  because  my  life  away  from  you  was  one  loiv- 
death.  I  could  not  stay.  Whether  you  want  me  or  nott 
J-ewis  I  had  to  come.  Do  what  you  may,  1  can  never  have 
any  hfe  ai)ait  from  you  more." 

She  knows  nothing.     She  has  come  to  him  because  she  loves 
um  too  well  to  let  even  guilt  stand  between  them.     And  he 
bows  his  head,  antl  from  his  full  heart  come  the  words,  sublime 
beyond  ail  others  to  speak  the  utter  joy  of  human  souls  • 

"  Thank  God  1 " 


Ifi^L    J^ 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

"  INTO    MARVELLOUS    LIGHT." 

UK  first  shock  of  glad  meeting,  of  joyful  surprise  is 
i-ast,  and  they  sit  .side  by  side,  and  ii  is  Sydney  who 
talks.  She  has  much  to  tell.  First  and  chief  is 
Lucy's  death,  of  which  as  yet  he  has  not  h.-ord,  and 
he  covers  his  eyes  for  a  moment  as  he  hears  it.  It  is  well  per- 
haps that  some  dimness  should  shadow  the  radiance  of  too 
much  light -this  is  the  dark  spot  in  his  picture.  He  has 
long  known  she  must  die  ;  but  let  death  be  ever  so  ion.--  ex- 
Jjected,  it  IS  none  tiie  less  a  shock  when  it  comes.  He°has 
loved  and  venerated   that  tender,  patient  sister,  even  in  the 


■=Jr!T»^-.-?S»^»  ■ 


'c.irr." 


Olid  the  words  thai 
lim.  Once  iiKire  he 
iiorc  Sychiey's  tender 


(Is  are  spoken.  She 
use  her.  So  intense 
->d.  Then  a  .sudden 
e  ronie  !  Does  she 
into  ilie  face  that  is 
he  has  seen  only  in 


le? 

I) 


How  is  it  that 


us,"  she  says  with  a 

you  was  one  long 

II  want   me  or  not, 

y,  1  can  never  have 

iin  because  she  loves 
een  them.  And  he 
e  tlie  words,  subHme 
human  souls  : 


)f  joyfui  surprise  is 
ul  it  is  Sydney  who 

First    and   chief  is 

has  not  licnrd,  and 
s  it.  It  is  well  |)er- 
he   radiance   of  too 

picture.  He  has 
)e  ever  so  long  ex- 
it comes.      He  has 

sister,  even  in  the 


''INTO  MAA'y/iLLOUS  L/GIIT."  437 

n.ost  thoughtless  days  of  his  youth  ;  but  it  seems  to  him  he  hag 
n;:ver  known  hovv  dear  she  was  to  him  before.  Looking  up  ir 
his  face  his  hands  clasped  in  hers,  Sydney  tells  him  all  Hc,w 
Sister  Monica  and  Lucy  pointed  out  the  path  of  duty,  that  has 
led  her  here.     She  tells  him,  too,  the  story  of  Teddy's  loss,  and 

i^L'riircfnuXr."'   '""  '°"^'  '"^'"^'  ^"'  »^^'"'   °^  '^'-^^^^'^ 
'      "  So  yo.i  lost  all,"  he  says  to  her,  looking  down  into  the  fair 
carnes  face  with  a  tender  smile,  "your  friend  and  your  boy. 
It  must  J'ave  been  very  lonely  for  you,  my  princess." 

J-onely  I        She  makes  a  little  passionate  gesture  ;  "  I  had 
lost  jw/,  Lewis-it  could  not  matter  who  canie  or  went  after 

f  ."<.-';"  ^A?  '^.°"^^l,"f ver  have  come  to  me  if  it  had  not  been 

1    m\  T   fvT''    ^'''  'i'"'^^''-     "^^>'-the-by,  if  ever!  meet 
that  best  of  little  sisters,  I  must  thank  her  for  sending  me  my 

ney  ?"  "'"''''''''  ^'""^^  '''''"''  of  yourself,  would  you,  Syd. 

"/Vh  !  I  don't  know,"  Sydney  says  sorrowfully  ;  "  it  was  such 

cvTnT    r.'  TT""";'^'  ^\""'  '""'^-     ''  g'-^  ^^^'^^^  heartache 
c  veil  now  that  I  sit  beside  you  and  look  back  upon  it-the  long 

esola  e  months  of  waiting,  and  hoping,  and  fearing,  and  long- 
ing Lewis,  I  thought  you  would  have  returned  when  the  war 
ended.  I  so  hoped  you  would  have  come  ;  I  would  never  have 
let  you  go  again  if  you  had.  Duty— as  I  thought  it  then-myr 
promise  to  the  dead-all  would  have  been  flung  to  the  winds 
at  the  sight  of  your  face.  Hut  you  did  not  coine,  you  did  no? 
seem  o  care  to  come.  You  had  your  work  and  your  ambition. 
Alui  do  not  fee  these  things  as  women  do.  My  life  has  been 
one  long  wretchedness  ;  and  yours-has  your  profession  kept 

u  ow  and  loneliness^  altogether  at  bay  ?     Has  your  life  not  been 

yoiii titl!?''''    ^'^  ^°"  ^""^^  ^""^  ''"'''  *''"^  ^°  S""*^^'  fo^ 

n. ,mn '1'  '1  ^T-'^''  °"  ^''  ^^''^  ""^  he  listens  to  the  impassioned 
lepioach,  but  his  eyes  are  tender  and  grave. 

"\\hat  do  you  think  about  it  ?  "  he  asks 

"  Your  work  has  w/  filled  your  life ;  "  she  answers,  «  Look 
here,  Lew.s,  she  lifts  his  dark  hair,  and  s.ith  a  touch  that  is  a 
caress,  there  are  gray  hairs  here,  my  dearest,  and  when  I  saw 
yo  1   ast  It  was  all  raven  dark.     You  have  not  changed  much, 

.  i  f ^"  T.  ^'''^  ^"°M  ^'^'^^  '"""■^■"^'^-  ^f>  ^^^^^S,  I  should 
never  have  let  you  go." 

She  lays  her  face  on  his  shoulder,  and  there  is  silence  for  a 


!f 


>OTi|lf        ' 


438  **INTO  MARVELLOUS  L/G/LT.'* 

little  ;  lirr  heart  full  of  the  loneliness  and  loss  of  these  two  i>ast 
years,  ' 

"It  uas  such  a  hard  conflict  between  dtity  and  love."   she 
goes  on,  -n,y  duty   U   seen,ed   to  n.e,  forbade  n.y  ever  seeing 
ai;.UM  the  man  u  ho  had  caused  Bertie  Vaughan'sdiath-for.Mvc 
..c  that  I  speak  of  ,t,  I  ew,s,  I  never  will  a^ain-and  n,y  fove 
c.iied   a  ways  lor   n.y  hnsband's  return.     Many,    n,any  liu.es 
when  half  w;ld  wuh  thinking  of  you,  alone  and  wret.  ifcd  as  I 
^as,  have  I  begun  lette-rs  nnpluring  your  return,  telling  yon  the 
l.ast  was  forgiven  and  forgotten  ;  but  when  tiiey  were  nnishcd 
and  the  nnpulse  was  pa.t,  I  could  not  send  then,.     My  n.on.ise 
to  n.y  father  seen.ed  to  rise  before  n,c  and  appal  me.     lo  ask 
|ou  to  return  seemed  to  i.,e  like  a  crime,  and  these  letters  went 
into  tlie  tire,  one  >ind  all." 

'•  And  yet,  my  wife,  you  are  here." 

"  Yes,  Lewis,  it  all  seemed  so  clear  that  night.  .Sister  Monica 
anil     ,u.-y  were  neaier  heaven  than    I  ;  they  knew  best.     Ail 
was  dark  with  me  ;   1  could  not  decide  what  was  right  or  whit 
waswiong.      F  was  like  one  shipwrecke.l,  tossing  about  on  a 
nn.l.  ed  sea  without  rudder  or  co.npass  or  pilot  u,  g„i,k,     n„t 
they  knew   and  my  heart,  hungry  for  the  sigh    of  you,  echoed 
every  word  th.y  saul.     And  so  I  am  here,  and   1  know  at  las 
n.y  hrst  earthly  duty  is   to  the  husband   I    love   and  vene.a^e 
above  all  men,  and   to  whom   I  have   pledged   to  cleaVc  uniil 
<.eath.     And  never-no  never,  Lewis,  shall  the   shadow  of  the 
past  come   to  darken   my  life.      I  want  you  to  know   and  feel 
t/uif,  to  believe  that  1  love  and  honor  you  as  greatly  as  though 
the  past  had  never  been."  ^  ^ 

She  tlings  her  arm.  about  him  with  a  great  sob  as  she  ceases 

u>.  th  1'".  "f  ''•'"''•     ^^••^V'V'>''^^'  '-^^'^^'^  ----r  ^^»J  takes 
uj)  the  sheet  of  paper  on  which  he  has  been  writin^r 

"  Look  here.  Sydney."  "^ 

She  looks  and  reads,  "  My  Dear  Wife,"  and  lifts  her  surprised 
eyes  to  his  fece.  ^ 

"  Were  you  writing  to  me,  Lewis  ?" 

thu  If^'  ''?'"^'  ^''r^''"-     ^^""'  '^  "^^  ^^''^^  yo»  a«  strange 
hat  after  a  silence  of  two  years  I  should  to-day  begin  a  letter 

o  you  ?  [  could  get  no  further  than  these  three  words  ;  they 
hold  a  charm  for  mc.  I  thought  I  had  written  them  for  the 
last  time  that  morning  in  my  mother's  house.  Do  you  not 
wonder  what  I  was  going  to  say  ? "  /  "«. 

She  laughs  and  blushes  in  the  old  charming  way  that  Sydney 
Uwenson  was  wont  to  do,  under  Lewis  Nolan's  eyes. 


GIITV 

OSS  of  these  two  past 

<1tity  and  love,"  she 
)a(le  my  ever  seeinj^ 
;li;ui's  death  — forgive 
a^Min— and  niy  lovo 
Many,  wr^wy  times, 
-'  and  wrctcliL'd  as  I 
•turn,  telhng  yon  the 
n  they  vvi'fe  limMied 
them.  My  promise 
appal  nie.'  'I'o  ask 
11(1  these  letters  went 


light.  Sister  Monica 
ley  knew  best.  All 
t  was  right  or  what 
tossing  about  on  a 
|)il«>f  lo  guide,  lint 
igli  of  you,  echoed 
and  I  know  at  last 

love  and  venerate 
;i'd  to  cleaVc  until 

the  shadow  of  tlie 
I  to  know  and  feel 
s  greatly  as  though 

t  sob  as  she  ceases, 
les  over  and  takes 
writing. 

d  lifts  her  surprised 


ke  you  as  strange 
i-day  begin  a  letter 
three  words  ;  they 
itten  them  for  the 
ise.     Do  you  not 

I  way  that  Sydney 
I's  eyes. 


fr 


You 


were 


going  to  tell  mc  what  I  I 


4J9 


::::^^;^r-K-Sa,,.va„"i^zUi™i:;;;;;;\f,''":.»;'y 


impossible  any  longer 


Well 


you— that  lifeapait 


was 


I 


'c  came  to 


afternoon   si  .  ^ 

V'>n  look  pu//hi|  ;    1 
"lusband  how  he  I 


you?   Do  you 
let  me  help  you.     She  said,    '"a 


■y  gave  you  for  mc,  th. 
uember   the   words? 


xt 


.iJtYt'pV,;'"*^  „e  Kist  paneu  wui,  liatie  vaughan?'    Was  uk 
"  V-es  ;  I  think  so.  » 

•t  '^..•granted  he  was  s         ,    h',;'     :^;^:'''«'7"f^^''  "ver,  I  took 

;^;'""nn    the   supposition      Now   )  '/'"''  """"''  '""'^^■''  t« 

'Uic.nayhaveieena"   isiak.T^v^^^        ""'    ■^t"'<o  you  that 

killed  after  all  ?"  '"^''^'-<-''   1  hat  he  may  not  have  been 

"  I-ewis,  w  hat  is  this  ?   i      i    ,         .       , 
«i^e  lifts  a  white  ita^;  ,  ,i'^  ^»  ^-ulc^tand  you !  " 
a  simie  she  does  not  una  -r  nj  '^^' «'"''^s  down  upon  her 

-clfi^lu  z:::l'z  'l:tlrti  ^"^  '■"-'•,  ^-'-^  ^  •-- 

|-"."^'nt.      1  believe  th  t  S  it  rJ^^   '''"^"'^  ^'•^^'   ^^  this 
">San  Francisco;  stdl  n  on-   H    m  "''^^ '  '""'■^■'  ''^^t  'i^'^s 

t'l':^  very  hour  -    IJen       |^  ^^  ^^^^  ^  '"    'his    very   hot,  I   a 

"'  't  -  l'.crtie  Vaughan  -"  ""  '""^  ''''^'  ^""'  ^^n-'y-thiak 

"I a; WIS,  what   are   you   savinrr  i  nu  i 
about  this.     Jfyou   h-iv,    nn      ■^-     ^^'  >'°"    ^^^^^    not    lest 
„„,,„  p  „  y""   have   any   puy,  speak   out-what  do  you 

'!  ^^y  ^l^'^ir  little  wife,  what  I  siv  All 
«t'''^'rnig,  all  our  parting,  hve  b..cMV  '^"  ,'">' ' -'">"'-.se,  all  our 
J^«'-;c  ^v.Muvr  da-  of  yo"„  ;  i'  /!'  "7'""-  On  that  long- 
^^'Hl  you  nunnnecl  for^hiraJ  J "u'^^  l>ncIeg,oom  did  not  conH. 
another  bride.  On  the  da  he  t  ^^1,7'  '^''  '''Hl^-g'*-'..  of 
^y^^cy,  he  married  Dolly  De  Comcv    "         "  """"'''^  >'""'  '"/ 

She  utters  a  trasoinrr  rr„    ^i  V    , 

«its  breathlessly ^waitil^  ''^'  "'"^»'«  ''"^h  hands  together,  and 


U 


Oh!  "she  die 


CUV 


en,  iJiank  Heaven  !" 


■les  out,   '«he  was  not  M!' 


■MtlUU 


Am 


en. 


No,  h 


viucr  all  i  l-hank 


ture  to  Mififer  for  at  the   be 


e  was  not  killed.     H 


e  was  bur  a 


St,   but  your  suffering 


poor 


was  in 


crea- 
vain. 


T 


tutusmt 


440 


''INTO  MARVELLOUS  LIGHT:' 


I   !: 


?    i 


l! 


Had  your  father  known  the  truth,  jiroud,  high  spirited,  as  you 
told  iiie  he  was,  tlie  shock  of  the  reahty  would  have  been 
worse  to  him  than  the  shock  of  the  delusion.  Dolly  De  Courcy 
saved  his  life  that  night,  and  he  married  her  next  day.  Married 
her  and  deserted  her,  and  is  now  under  this  roof  the  husband 
of  ai^other  woman.  Don't  tremble  so,  Sydney  ;  I  will  tell  you 
the  whole  story  ? 

ile  tells  it ;  the  story  of  that  sultry  night,  of  Dolly,  of  the  ser- 
vices he  was  able  to  render,  and  of  her  return.  And  Sydney 
li^>tens,  dazed,  in  a  dream.  Bertie  Vaughan  alive  and  here  I 
She  has  thougiit  him  dead  so  long  that  it  is  impossible  to  real- 
ize it.  And  Lewis's  hand  is  unstained  by  blood,  not  the  shadow 
of  a  shadow  need  stand  between  them.  She  turns  so  white,  so 
deathly  faint  and  sick,  that  he  thinks  she  is  going  to  swoon,  and 
S[)riugs  to  his  feet  in  consternation. 

"  (Jood  Heaven  !  Sydney,  the  shock  has  been  too  much  for 
you.  Don't  faint,  I  beg!"  cries  Lewis  with  a  man's  comical 
honor,  "  wait  !  I'll  get  a  glass  of  wine — of  water." 

He  rushes  off,  despite  Sydney's  gasping  protest.  Under  the 
open  window  there  is  a  marble  stand  and  a  crystal  jug  of  ice- 
water.  He  is  hastily  filling  a  goblet,  when  the  stentpr  tones  of 
"  Vou  Pete,"  on  the  sidewalk  below  arrest  his  hand. 

"  Looka-heah  1  you  darn  black  nigger  !  "  is  what  "You  Pete" 
is  vociferating  ;  "  does  you  mean  to  loaf  up  dar  all  day  ?  Jest 
fotch  along  Missy  Vaughan':;  tother  Sairytogy,  and  look  alive 
'bout  it,  will  yer  !" 

It  is  the  name  that  arrests  his  attention.  At  the  curbstone 
stands  a  hack,  the  driver  busily  strapping  on  trunks.  Within, 
upon  the  front  seat  sits  a  nurse  and  a  bal)y ;  upon  the  back,  a 
lady,  her  head  thrust  out  of  the  doorway  giving  directions.  She 
is  a  woman  of  forty  or  more,  fat  and  yellow,  with  an  unpleas- 
antly bilious  look,  a  wide  thin  mouth,  a  sharply  pointed  nose, 
small  fierce  black  eyes,  and  shrew  and  vixen  in  every  acrid  tone 
of  her  piercing  voice. 

"  Say,  you  darkey  !  "  she  shrieks  to  *'  You  Pete,"  "  just  go  and 
see  what  Mr.  Vaughan's  about,  will  you.  I  can't  wait  here  for 
him  all  day." 

"All  right,  missis,  he  ain't  doin'  nuffin,  missis,"  briskly  re- 
sponds Pete  ;  "jest  a  wettin'  his  whistle  in  de  bar.  Now  den, 
old  whi[),  here's  dai  xx  Sairytogy  at  last." 

"  Wetting  his  whistle  ! '"  repeats  the  lady  vindictively.  "  IVill 
you  go,  you  black  boy,  and  tell  him  to  come  here  this  very  min- 
ute. I  shall  drive  on  if  he  isn't  here  when  that  trunk  is  strapped." 


I,  missis,"  briskly  re- 
n  de  bar.     Now  den, 


*'INTO  MARVELLOUS  LIGHT."  44, 

-  All  right  'in,"  says  I'ete  with  a  -rin,  and  an  intense  appu- 
ciatUMi  ot  the  situation,  and  di-os  nito  the  liotcl 

"  f>-^l"^'>>';  sjiys  Mr.  Nolan,  with  what  can  be  called  nothing 
lesyhan  diabolical  malice,  "come  here.     The  air  will  do  you 

There  is  a  wicked  laugh  in  his  eyes  as  he  draws  her  hand 
through  his  arm.  His  windows  "give"  on  the  piazza,  likl 
doons,  and  he  throws  this  wide,  and  leads  her  out. 

only—"  ^''"^''  ^^''''''"  '''''   '^^''  ""   ""^^  ^oWxmg.     It  was 
She  suddenly  stO])s.     In  flaring  painted  capitals,  on  the  can- 
'"'l''^J'\l?^  '^'^  "Sanytogys"  there  is  the  name  Vaughan 

Well,  cries  tlie  owner  of  the  vinegar  face,  in  a  most  vine- 
gary voice,  to  "  You  Pete,"  who  reappears:  "  .x  Mr.  Vaughan 
connng  or  is  he  not  ?     Does  he  mean  to  keep  me  here  alUlay 

or Oil  !  really,  Mr.  Vaughan,  here  vou  an  at  last !  "  (this 

in  accents  of  scathing  politeness.)     "  How  very  good  of  you  to 
condescend  to  come  at  all !  "  ^ 

"  What  a  devil  of  a  hurry  you're  in,  Caroline,"  says  a  sulkv 
mascuhne  voice;  "it  wants  twenty  minutes  of  train-time  yet! 

and  It  isn  t  a  ten-minute  drive.     Can't  you  1.     a  man " 

He  pauses  and  looks  up.  For  from  the  piazza  there  comes 
a  low,  irrepressible  cry  of  "  Bertie  I "  And  the  words  die  on 
111.  lips,  and  the  deep,  permanent  Hush  Hides  into  sickly  pallor 
on  his  lace,  and  he  stands  like  a  man  whom  every  power  is  leav- 

He  recognizes  her  instantly  and  she  him.  She  has  changed 
but  tt le,  and  that  little  for  the  better  ;  he  has  changed  nmcb, 
and  tha  much  for  the  worse  ;  but  they  know  each  other  instan! 
taneously.  (,rown  stout  and  somewhat  bloated,  indeed,  all  that 
delicacy  of  figure  and  complexion  that  once  made  Ik-rtie 
Vaughan  beautiful,  wiih  a  woman's  beauty,  forever  lost,  it  is  yet 
i'ertie  Vaughan  wlio  stands  there  and  looks  at  Cai.tain  Owen- 
son  s  ciaugater. 

He  has  turned  dead  white  to  the  very  lips;  he  stands  para- 
i)/cd,  anu  for  ten  seconds  they  look  straight  into  each  other'* 

Pr,Ti'V!"..^^'''"  ^^''^^'^^  c°"^^s  to  the  rescue  in  tones  of  smoih- 


Mr.  Vaughan,  for  the  last  time,  will 


into  tliis  carriage;  ?     What 


...iw  iu,s  cairiage  f     ,\nal  are  you  standing  there 
lool  lor  ?     Driver,  don't  wait  another  minute  :  dr 


you  or  will  you  not  get 


you  standing  there  gaping  like  a 


19=" 


ive  on. 


sae: 


!  '!i 


442 


''INTO  MARVELLOUS  LIGHTS 


?  ••  i  :      I 


i       ) 


w  i 


ii 


lip 


It  aioiisrs  liiiii  from  his  trance.  Alas  !  those  tones  cf  vfr- 
juice  arouse  him  often.      He  turns  and  leaps  in. 

"  Drive  and  be !  "  is  the  awful  expn.'ssion  he  makes  use 

of,  in  his  recklessness,  to  his  wealtiiy  wife. 

He  jjulls  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  shuts  his  lijjs,  fokk  his  arms, 
and  is  driven  to  tiie  station.  V>w\.  all  the  while  the  ruddy  color 
does  not  return,  all  the  while  the  ceaseless  nag,  nag,  of  a  nag- 
ging woman  falls  like  the  harmless  buzzing  of  a  suuuner  lly. 
\Vhatcver  this  woman  whom  he  has  married  may  know  of  his 
career,  tliere  is  one  episode  she  does  not  know,  never  will  know  ; 
one  name  she  will  never  hear,  and  that  Sydney  Owenson. 

The  husband  and  wife  on  the  piazza  stand  and  watch  the  car- 
riage that  bears  the  other  husband  and  wife  out  of  sight.  Then 
si.  •  turns  to  him  with  a  sort  of  sobbing  cry 

"  Oh,  Lewis,  take  me  in.'' 

He  obeys,  almost  sorry  for  what  he  has  done,  and  she  leans 
her  face  against  him,  and  he  knows  that  she  is  crying.  Not  for 
the  man  she  has  just  seen,  may  never  see  again,  and  has  so  long 
mourned  as  dead,  but  for  the  memory  of  that  other  IJertie 
Vaughan,  the  brother  of  her  youth,  the  i)et  of  her  father  and 
mother — a  memory  diat  is  dead  and  buried  forever. 

"  Don't  cry,  my  prmcess,"  her  husband  says,  smiling,  yet 
looking  sympathetic,  too;  "he  never  was  worth  one  of  those 
tears  ;  and,  poor  fellow,  my  deepest  sympathies  go  with  him." 

"  That  wife  !  "  Lewis  Nolan  laughs,  in  spite  of  his  concern 
at  these  falling  tears.  "1  knew  you  could  never  realize  the 
fact  of  his  being  alive  so  vividly  as  if  you  saw  him  face  to  face. 
Mrs.  Nolan,  cease  immediately  !  I  object  to  your  crying  for 
another  man." 

It  is  the  briefest  of  sununer  showers.  She  lifts  her  face  and 
dashes  away  the  lingering  tear-drops,  indignant  at  herself. 

"  Oh  ! "  she  says,  with  a  great  gasp,  and  clasi)ing  both  hands 
lightly  around  Mr.  Nolan's  gray  coat-sleeve,  "to  think  I  might 
have  been  his  wife  to-day  if  you  had  not  thrown  him  over  the 
cliif.     I  never  want  to  think  of  Bertie  Vaughan  again." 

"  Then  my  rising  jealousy  is  allayed.  Blame  him  not,  my 
princess — awful  retribution  has  befallen  him — an  avengin<r  Nem- 
esis has  overtaken  him  in  the  person  of  that  appal'  g  Mrs. 
Vaughan.     Even  Dolly  De  Courcy  is  avenged." 

"  Let  us  talk  of  something  else,"  says  Mrs.  Nolan,  with  a  lit- 
tle distasteful  look,  as  if  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Vaughan  left  a  bad  taste 
in  her  mou  ' — "yonder  sunset,  for  instance.     I  did  not  think 


those  tones  cf  ver 

s  in. 

.'ssion  he  makes  use 

lil)s,  folck  his  arms, 
hile  the  ruddy  color 

nag,  nag,  of  a  nag- 
iig  of  a  suuuner  lly. 
ed  may  know  of  his 
\v,  never  will  know  ; 
ney  Owenson. 
1  and  watch  the  car- 
out  of  sight.     Then 


done,  and  she  leans 
;  is  crying.  Not  for 
gain,  and  has  so  long 
f  that  other  liertie 
;t  of  her  father  and 
forever. 

1  says,  smiling,  yet 
worth  one  of  those 
thiesgo  with  him." 
si)ite  of  his  concern 
lid  never  realize  the 
aw  him  face  to  face. 
t  to  your  crying  for 

he  lifts  her  face  and 
lant  at  herself, 
clasping  both  hands 
t,  "  to  think  I  might 
hrown  him  over  tlie 
fhan  again." 
lilame  him  not,  my 
—an  avengin/r  Neni- 
that  appaH  g  Mrs. 
ged." 

rs.  Nolan,  with  a  lit- 
ighan  left  a  bad  taste 
e.     I  did  not  think 


''INTO  MARVELLOUS  LIGHT.-" 


443 


you  got  up  such  gorgeous  coloring  in  the  land  of  gold.  It 
equals  Venice." 

For  the  sun  is  going  down  behind  the  myriad  city  roofs  and 
steeples,  in  a  glory  of  color  we  call  golden  and  crimson,  but 
which  no  hue  of  earth  ever  approaches.  Fleecy  clouds  all  pal- 
est rose  or  vividest  red,  faintest  amber  and  deepest  orange,  go 
before  like  heralds,  and  in  his  royal  purples,  like  any  other  mon- 
arch, the  king  of  day  is  sinking  from  sight. 

"How  lovely!  how  lovely!"  Sydney  murmurs.  "What  a 
glorious  sky !  " 

'*  Ye-e-s,"  Mr.  Nolan  says,  in  the  critical  tone  of  a  connois- 
seur  in  sunsets.  _  '•  When  we  do  this  sort  of  thing  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, we  do  do  it.  A  very  fine  celestial  illumination,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Nolan,  got  up  for  your  special  delectation,  no  doubt,  to 
convince  you  that  painted  skies  are  home  as  v/ell  as  foreign  pro- 
ducts.    It  is  beautiful." 

She  smiles,  but  says  nothing— her  swelling  heart  too  full  for 
words.  It  seems  to  her  as  if  the  great  new  happiness  that  has 
come  to  her  were  but  reflected  in  that  lovely  western  radiance. 
She  still  clasps  his  arm,  and  so,  side  by  side,  to  part  no  more, 
they  stand  together,  the  rose  light  on  their  faces,  the  "  light 
that  never  shone  on  sea  or  land,"  in  their  hearts,  and  watch  the 
sun  go  down. 


THE    END. 


